by Andy Cox
“Kumo-harai.”
It was his lover who had been gone for six days. Excitement swelled in his chest and he spun around. But there was no one there, only a wet, early morning mist settling into the leafy ground, and beyond that the old wooden temple, its paper doors pushed open. He could see the monks filing quietly into the main hall for meditation. A bronze bell rang in low waves across the graveyard; and Kumo-harai’s heart broke for the second time.
“Kumo-harai,” the voice whispered again.
Kumo-harai. The Spider Sweeper. It wasn’t his real name, but it was what everyone called him, ever since the monks of the Yamaoku Temple had taken him in. It was his job.
He was just one of too-many children, a boy who didn’t work particularly hard at anything, who would rather stare at the sky half the day than mend the broken geta of a beautiful woman. But, still, he was attractive enough for the go-betweens in town to seek out his parents and attempt to arrange marriages. But no matter how much status or money the offering family had, Kumo-harai – much to his parents’ shame – always fled their requests.
He was eventually taken to the local soothsayer who deemed him one of those poor souls who were bound to loneliness their entire lives. He would need more than he would ever give, she explained. And over time this would consume all of the family’s fortune and luck. She suggested he be sent away, that the lessons he needed to learn were under some other roof. His parents agreed. It was only the monks who were able to find the work he could do and the quiet that he desired.
“Kumo-harai.”
It was then he saw in the thin blue dawn light a tall handsome man with his sedge sandogasa hat thrown back and his long hair loose around shoulders, his hands open and empty by his sides. It was Jin. Kumo-harai felt an immediate rush of affection well and then crash into clammy terror. The mist shifted, the vision faded and Kumo-harai collapsed to the ground and wept until the head abbot found him half the day later.
•••
The head abbot was a serious man with small fox-like eyes that seemed to be sunk too deep into his face. His nose was the shape of a sticky rice ball, his mouth the colour of an earthworm and perpetually downturned. When he smiled – which wasn’t often – he showed rotten teeth. Still, he was a man of great wisdom and patience, who many of the townspeople came to for consolation and advice. Do not be deceived by appearances was one of his more frequent sermons.
Kumo-harai buried his face in the abbot’s old robes, scratching his cheek on the rough-edged holes burned into the fabric by the spitting fire of the daily purification ceremony. He was embarrassed by his emotions and his lack of control, but he couldn’t stop sobbing. The abbot was a magnanimous man and didn’t ridicule him, he merely held Kumo-harai close to his chest and waited for an explanation.
When he was able, Kumo-harai described what he’d seen and heard. The abbot nodded but said nothing.
Later that day a pair of travelling monks arrived. They were given a meal and a blessing and sent right back out to see if they could learn something to put their spider sweeper’s fears to rest.
•••
The next day the vision returned. It strode across the graveyard and disappeared near the thick-walled storehouse where the monks kept their pickled vegetables and rice. Kumo-harai cried out, disturbing the morning’s meditation, but by the time the abbot arrived the ghost had vanished. Kumo-harai insisted on being taken to the soothsayer. Maybe she’d have an answer.
The abbot steadfastly refused, stating that she was a charlatan preying on people’s fears. But after the third day when the apparition returned again with the morning mist and marched across the yard and into the storehouse, Kumo-harai abandoned his work and went alone to the woman who seemed to know truth much more than the monks.
“Your relationship…” she started.
“We’re friends. We became friends when he visited the temple one month ago.”
“Friends,” she repeated, rattling a bamboo cup full of long sticks.
“It was like I’d met him before. I would say I know him better than I know any of my brothers or sisters.” Kumo-harai paused. “And he knows me.”
“This is evidenced by his visits,” the woman said. “Sometimes strong emotions can cause a person’s spirit to leave their body. Emotions of hate, jealousy…” The woman squinted at the fidgeting young man. “Love,” she added slowly, as if judging his reaction.
“So it’s not a ghost I’m seeing?” Kumo-harai asked. “Just his spirit missing me?”
“You say the vision calls out to you and walks to the storehouse?”
“Yes.”
“Why the storehouse?” She gave the sticks one more shake and then scattered them across the floor.
•••
Kumo-harai was rinsing off his broom in the river when the travelling mendicant first arrived. He was darkly tanned, lean and long-muscled. And filthy. Kumo-harai crouched by a hydrangea bush and with a stick quietly pretended to remove the more obstinate threads of spider web buried deep in the bristles of his broom. He observed the stranger from the corner of his eye.
The stranger placed his staff and pack on a rock. He removed his leggings and sandals and stripped down to his fundoshi. He untied his cone-shaped hat and used it to cover his belongings. Finally, he removed a small length of twine from his hair before he climbed a boulder and plunged head first into the icy water. Kumo-harai watched him swim, temporarily forgetting his made-up task.
After some time the man returned to the shallow bank and stood, his long black hair falling down to the small of his back. He rubbed his body and face with handfuls of soft sand until the grime and dust that had accumulated from his travels disappeared and his skin shone red. He cupped his hands and drank deeply from the river.
“You, over there!” the stranger called, turning to face Kumo-harai. He was beautiful. “This is the best tasting water I’ve had since Joanji in Shima. There must be magic in those mountains.”
Kumo-harai rose, took a step and stumbled. He didn’t think he’d been seen. Had the stranger known he was being watched the whole time? Maybe he was talking to someone else. Kumo-harai looked over both shoulders. The dark man laughed.
“Is that your temple up there?” He pointed to the silver-tiled roof visible through the trees.
Kumo-harai shouldered his broom and nodded.
“You don’t talk, do you?”
Kumo-harai did talk. He just wasn’t used to being talked to. The monks didn’t speak often, and other than the tofu seller who delivered the morning meal there was really no one except the birds and the insects and the murmuring spirits that rattled the wooden grave tablets to converse with.
Before the day ended in purple and blue, Kumo-harai learned the mendicant was called Jin, the son of a paper maker up north in Echigo. Five years ago an outbreak of smallpox ravaged his town and he lost his entire family. Heartbroken, he renounced his trade and possessions and set out to travel down Japan visiting every one of the sixty-six holy sites.
When Kumo-harai asked what he was searching for, Jin said that he didn’t know, that maybe he was running from something or towards something, but the real answer was probably that he was simply afraid. Kumo-harai fell asleep that night admiring deeply this stranger and wondering why his own kind of fear didn’t encourage movement but left him too scared to do anything at all.
•••
Kumo-harai discovered they were the same age, although Jin looked much older with his sunburned, lined face and the slight limp he’d taken on from his years of travelling. But it wasn’t just that; there was a hushed energy about him that suggested deep thought or a long-lived life. Kumo-harai couldn’t help but address him in the overly polite language he usually spoke only to the abbot of the temple.
At first the townspeople were wary of the dark-skinned stranger. Even the monks, while allowing him to stay, as they must any itinerant disciple of the Buddha, were watchful. And so for fifteen days Jin spent all of his
time with Kumo-harai, helping him with his many chores. They replaced the oil in the andon lanterns, raked the embers from under the bath, and pulled kudzu from the stone stairs of the temple. And every morning they woke before dawn and carefully swept away the spiders from the rafters and the gravestones and set them gently on the shivering limbs of the old persimmon tree.
There was a familiarity with Jin that Kumo-harai had never felt before, something comfortable. Days passed much more quickly than they ever had before, and yet at night on a threadbare futon there were so many things to remember he found himself refusing sleep in order to re-examine each memory in detail, one by one.
Jin had many stories. He recounted his travels, teaching Kumo-harai folk tales and superstitions from as far away as Hizen and Tosa. During trips to and from the river, two slatted barrels across their shoulders, he’d often describe funny and curious customs.
“In Kyushu they call spiders kobu instead of kumo,” he explained one day as they rested with their backs pressed against a leaning gravestone. Jin contemplated a tiny sunset-red spider on the back of his hand.
“Kobu,” Kumo-harai repeated, liking the silly sound of the dialect.
“The night spiders are referred to as yoru kobu instead of yoru kumo.” Jin blew lightly on the spider and it jumped onto a strand of grass. He crossed his arms over his knees, rested his chin on his forearms and waited.
Kumo-harai smiled, finally understanding the play on words. “It sounds like yorokobu, happiness,” he said. “So night spiders are good luck there?”
“The more I travel the more I realise all things, even your perception of things, are only a matter of the words ascribed,” Jin said. “Or so it seems.” He looked Kumo-harai in the eyes. “People would be better off being quiet. Like you.”
Later in the day Jin’s accounts would invariably turn to the macabre: eerie folklore of beautiful women with greedy mouths concealed in the backs of their heads; impossibly thin, hungry ghosts that dipped their long tongues into unwatched oil lamps; giant spiders that hid in the forest, only venturing out occasionally to crack open the skulls of unsuspecting victims and feast on their brains.
•••
When it was finally judged that Jin wasn’t a wandering bandit, that he was indeed full of fascinating stories and news from all over Japan, the townspeople began to come around. And soon it wasn’t just Kumo-harai who loved the dark stranger named Jin.
Women gathered to learn remedies for skin ailments and weak stomachs; men came to ask about the state of certain territories, the lords who reigned there, and the outcome of various clan battles. Even the children tugged at his robes, begging for a new game or song. Jin would sit for hours teaching them to make whistles from the stems of dandelions.
One day while Jin and Kumo-harai were picking devil’s tongue to dry for the abbot’s tea, several young women approached. After much giggling, they asked Jin to describe the fabled Shimada chignon they’d heard so much about. One woman let down her hair and asked boldly if he could show them how it was made.
It was at that moment that Kumo-harai felt an emotion he’d never had before. He removed the basket from his hip and spent the rest of the day alone by the river. By nightfall he was no longer angry but terrified in a way he’d never been before.
The following day the two worked side by side as usual and Kumo-harai tried to pretend that nothing inside him had changed. But what was once comfortable was now awkward and he could find nothing to talk about. Even Jin seemed to be more distant than usual. After the evening meal Jin built a small fire behind the graveyard to keep off the chill and used his staff to knock the branches of the chestnut tree. The two gathered and roasted the prickly treats in silence.
“Those are the temples you’ve visited,” Kumo-harai said, pointing to the characters burned into Jin’s thick boxwood staff.
“All of them so far,” Jin said, turning the staff in his hands to show his friend. “I’ve still got five more stops.”
“Five more,” Kumo-harai repeated. He leaned over and ran his finger down the impressions until he reached the last one. Yamaoku Temple. His temple. It was a small stamp. They weren’t one of the sixty-six holy sites. They hardly ever had travelling monks visit; most carried on until they reached the city.
Jin picked up a sharp stone and below the last stamp began to carve something in the empty space.
Kumo-harai used the end of his broom to poke the fire. “Your next stop is Mishima,” he said.
“Yes.”
Kumo-harai turned and faced his friend. Jin’s profile was lit orange and red from the fire. He stopped carving and threw the stone aside, blew on the wood.
“You have to leave,” Kumo-harai said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” Jin answered. “But I’ll return before autumn next year.”
“That’s a long time.”
“Not so long.” Jin gazed into the darkening forest. The moon, not quite full, was still low and large, rising over the tree line. The night insects chirred. “I’ll be back in time for spider season. I’ll be here to help.”
Kumo-harai smiled. From inside the temple the last bell of the evening tolled, slow reverberations washing over them. The monks could be heard shuffling barefoot across the straw-matted floors to their rooms, their prayers finished for the day. Jin handed Kumo-harai his staff, turning it so he could see the new inscription.
Kumo-harai. He’d carved his name.
“You’re the gentlest soul I’ve ever met,” Jin said. “Someone who greets the birds by the names he’s given them, who whispers appreciation to bath water before he throws it out, and who sees the world as it should be, not as it is.” Jin held out his hands and examined them in the firelight. They were old man’s hands. “You made me battle myself. You confused me.” He finally turned to meet Kumo-harai’s stare. “And I could very well end my journey here. Stay here. Forever.”
Kumo-harai felt his breath hitch in his chest. He wanted to cry out. The bell’s ringing faded, and was replaced by a beautiful chorus of crickets erupting from the forest. The sound was just for them.
The last paper door in the temple slid shut across its wooden track. Jin reached out and took Kumo-harai’s hand. He stood and led him to the grassy patch behind the storage house where the moonlight fell and the night-blooming jasmine ran up the back of the stone building.
•••
Jin was still asleep when Kumo-harai left to fetch water and start the morning fires. When he returned he found the graveyard wet with morning dew and a heavy mist. The spiders had been busy and even in the faint morning light their webs glistened in long jewel-lined threads from gravestone to gravestone. Standing near a mossy lantern was Jin. He was dressed in his travelling clothes. Kumo-harai felt the strength leave his legs, but the dark man was there to hold him up and kiss him one last time.
News of Jin’s imminent departure spread quickly, and the abbot hastily arranged for a pilgrimage ceremony to be performed.
The monks lit a large fire and fed it with damp grasses and handfuls of fragrant herbs. A constant rhythm was beaten on taiko drums, bells were rung, and deep trance-inducing tones were chanted. Jin knelt before the abbot, head bowed, receiving the blessing. Before long the townspeople were making their way up the mountain to wish their new friend a safe journey. Kumo-harai hid in the plumes of cedar and sage-scented smoke, allowing it to sting his eyes.
After the ceremony Jin was presented with a bundle of food and fresh water for his journey. The children looped several dandelion necklaces around his neck and played little tunes on the stems. Kumo-harai remained apart from the crowd, even though he wanted to run to Jin, beg him to stay.
Jin said goodbye to each person in turn, and then approached Kumo-harai. “I forgot to return this,” he said, pressing something into the palm of his hand.
Kumo-harai squeezed the object tightly, and with his other hand held Jin’s wrist. “Thank you,” he said, bowing low.
Jin return
ed the bow and in a low voice said, “If I don’t leave now I’ll never go. It was a promise I made on my parents’ grave, my sisters’ grave. I have to—”
“I know,” Kumo-harai said, sliding his hand up Jin’s sleeve to grasp his forearm. They stood in silence for a long time before Jin finally pulled away.
While Jin was tying his hat around his chin, Kumo-harai opened his palm to find a tiny Buddha carved out of black coral. He knew its story. It had belonged to Jin’s mother.
Kumo-harai, thinking he’d see him again, watched the broad back of his lover walk away.
•••
Kumo-harai waited as the soothsayer examined the sticks on the straw-matted floor.
“Yes, yes, that’s what it is,” she said. “His spirit is visiting you.”
Kumo-harai was almost ready to believe her prediction when one of the monks from the temple flung open the door and charged in.
“The abbot said I’d find you here,” he said. He was out of breath. “I have news.”
Kumo-harai balled his hands into fists and closed his eyes.
“There were bandits on the road,” the monk said. “Jin was alone.” The monk couldn’t look Kumo-harai in the eyes. “He was murdered.”
“But he was a mendicant,” Kumo-harai said. “He had nothing of value…”
He reached up to touch the collar of his robe, running his finger along the outline of the small Buddha he’d sewn there three nights ago. He wondered if Jin had not given it to him, could he have used it to buy his own life?
•••
When Kumo-harai woke the next morning he could hardly remember being carried back to the temple and laid in his drafty room.
Down the hallway he could hear chanting and drumming and the crackle of the fire. A very faint light came from behind the paper shoji. He had overslept and someone had performed his morning chores for him. He hurried into the graveyard. It was the fourth morning since the ghost first appeared and Kumo-harai prayed he was not too late to see him again.
“Kumo-harai.”
The ghost was waiting. It turned its back and strode across the yard towards the storehouse, the first and last place they’d been together.