Japanese Gothic Tales Page 5

  The priest nodded and cleared his throat. "Good question. She's about twenty-three or -four. Maybe twenty-five."

  "With three children? You said the oldest one was thirteen." "Yes. But none of them is hers."

  "Stepchildren?"

  "That's right. All three from a previous marriage. There's a story about Tamawaki's first wife, too, but we won't go into that. He married this one called Mio about two or three years ago.

  "Now here's the thing. No one knows anything about her—where she was born, where she grew up, whose daughter or sister she might have been. Did Tamawaki acquire her as security for a loan? Did he buy her? Some said she was the daughter of an aristocrat who had run into hard times. Others said she came from a wealthy household that had fallen apart. Some were convinced she was a high-ranking geisha, or that she had once been a high-class prostitute. There was no end to the rumors flying about, including one theory that she was the guardian spirit of some bottomless lake. Nobody knew who she really was."

  15

  "I surely couldn't learn much about her when I saw her. Of course, a priest isn't supposed to have much of an eye for that sort of thing any-way—the shape of a woman's eyebrows, her eyes, and so forth. I didn't think she was that charming, but her mouth was well shaped, hardly the kind that looked as if it would utter a word of false praise. And she did seem intelligent, as though she understood the vanity of life and the true nature of love.

  "Her body and face expressed a lot of feeling. She wasn't the kind of woman who would give the cold shoulder to a man, whether a boatman or a horseman or even a priest. Even if she didn't allow a relationship to develop, she would at least answer her suitor with an appropriate poem. The knot of her sash, the hem of her sleeve - with the slightest touch, a man's bones would melt with the dew of human passion.

  "She was refined. But you'd have to say her face was more striking than angelic. She had the looks of a woman who would dress in a crimson skirt and read by candlelight in a dark castle keep, the dew dripping from her sleeves, her hair too fine to be washed with ordinary water. She was like a woman swimming alone in a mineral spring, far removed from any sign of human life, wringing her long black hair, her skin like snow. She didn't fill me with longing so much as with the impression that she possessed a boundless power that could bewitch a man in a single glance. In her was heaven and hell and this world of dust, making me think that both her sins and her punishments were profound.

  "Anyway, to the gentleman who fell in love with her, those other men, the one with the yellow belt and the other with the crimson under-sash, were mercenaries from hell dragging her to the beach at the witching hour. And that's why he ended up over at the Tamawaki mansion.

  "At that spot where the river curves away from the beach road and runs along the back gate of the mansion, he stood in the shade of a reed fence and watched her and the men walking among the pine trees on the other side. She stood among the three men as they moved in a line together. He could see her face clearly but, because of the fence, her sash and skirt and everything from her shoulders down was hidden. The four moved among the flowing grass and Chinese bellflowers. Gradually, they disappeared, leaving him to wonder if they had sensed his presence and had led her off to some other part of the mansion. The fiendish-looking one in the lead seemed to be saying to him that he would never get to see the woman again, at least not until the next life. But then again, maybe all they were doing was enjoying the miniature hill that had been recently built in the garden.

  "Finally, as if realizing he would have to meet her under different circumstances, he went and stood among the trees on the other side of the river. This, too, was Tamawaki's property, and he had begun clearing away some of the timber. There was a large tidal lake and an area of green grass, surrounded by the thick stand of pine. Right now the violets are in bloom. Come summer, there will be Chinese pinks. And in the fall, the bush clover. It's a quiet spot. You ought to go take a look."

  "Sounds a little gloomy."

  "Not at all. There's plenty of light. The perfect place to take a walk and read a book."

  "What about snakes?" the wanderer suddenly asked.

  "You don't like snakes?"

  "Not really."

  "Why not? I never understand why snakes have such a bad reputation. Take the time to look at them closely and you'll see they're very gentle creatures. Yes, they rise up and stare at you when you pass by on the road. But look back over your shoulder, and you'll see how they lower their heads and turn away in embarrassment. They're hardly what you'd call hateful animals." The priest laughed. "They have feelings, too, you know."

  "That's even worse."

  "I wouldn't worry. Snakes don't like salt water, so you won't find them near the lake. These days Tamawaki's wife isn't staying at the mansion, anyway. And all those holes in the ground? They're dark and empty and as numerous as the chambers in a wasp's nest. They're holes for crabs, actually, not for snakes. And they're so small you could never get your foot stuck in one."

  16

  "But to the gentleman, those holes must have seemed like eyes in a skull. He walked around the lake and then toward the river. No doubt the Tamawaki mansion began to seem like a prison for the woman he now laved.

  "The tide ebbed and flowed almost imperceptibly. There against the dull-gray cliff neither floating nor sinking, were five or six water- soaked logs, doomed eventually to fall apart and turn into hundreds of carp. No doubt he thought he could make them into a boat if he had a saw; or that he could fashion them into a raft if he only had rope enough to tie them together. But he had neither saw nor rope; and without them, how could he cross love's abyss? He could never do it, at least not while he was still alive. Only his soul would be able to make that journey.

  "Before the gate, surrounded by the pine groves, he stood on tiptoe. To the butterflies, he must have seemed like a fickle man, wandering among the young trees, able to see the others only from the shoulders up, feeling that he himself had lost his legs and his feet, that he had become a bat fluttering about at midday.

  "From the bosom of his kimono he produced a book and began to read.

  Flames of tapers, hung on high,

  Emblaze the gauze-screened air.

  In the flowery chambers at night

  Men crush the cinnabar-fed geckos.

  The elephant's mouth puff incense forth,

  My Persian rug is warm.

  The Dipper hangs o'er the walls,

  I hear the water clock's gong.

  Cold creeps through the cave-hanging net

  As palace shadows darken.

  The brilliant simurghs on lintels of blinds

  Wear the scars of frost.

  "Here in Japan, the image would probably be of a frog crying at the moon from where it sits beneath a balustrade. A few lines later, the poem reads "lock up this poor Chen," because Lady Chen, a favorite of Emperor Wen of Wei, later fell out of favor and was imprisoned.

  In dreams I pass through the gates of my home,

  Up past the sandy isles.

  The River of Heaven curves down through the air

  To meet the road on Long Island.

  Chen is released from the palace and rides upon the back of a fish. Splaying the waves, she makes her escape.

  "Quietly intoning the poem, the gentleman started to weep; his eyes watched the logs sink and rise and flap their fins as they approached the gate. He stared at them. He glared at them. Something was happening. The poem, by the way, is in the T'ang Collection, isn't it?"

  "I wouldn't know," the visitor replied. "How did you say it went? She sees herself returning home in a dream, up past the sandy isles? It's almost as if her soul were wandering in a desert. 'The River of Heaven curves down through the air to meet the road on Long Island.' What a sad poem. It even makes me think she's being held prisoner. So, tell me, what happened next?"

  "Next? Well, his face got thinner," the priest continued. "His eyes grew sunken. He turned pale. Then one day he fin
ally got up enough energy to go into town and get a shave. And that's when it happened.

  "He had his hair shampooed, and, for the first time in a long while, he felt refreshed. He walked out of the shop and saw, right across the street, one of those country mercantiles where they sell everything from tobacco to kitchenware. The ground in front of the shop door was sprinkled with water, and a lantern was hanging from the eaves. Someone had laid a porch-like platform over the gutter and into the street, and there two people sat facing each other playing shogi. They were using thin slices of wood for missing pawns. A common practice, as you know.

  "As he had nothing else to do, the gentleman went over and stood on the side of the road to watch the men. Both players were taking each other's castles one after another, slapping their pieces on the board, and shouting each time they triumphed. One of the players was tending his child, probably while his wife was at the bathhouse, holding the little boy on his lap and chewing on his pipe, cup facing down.

  "Each time he shouted, it looked as though the pipe was going to hit the child on the head. The boy, his brow more wrinkled than his father's, was trying his best to grab it. Fortunately, the pipe wasn't lit, so while the father was moving around, trying to save his castle from being taken, the boy was in no danger of getting burned. The son would reach out. The father's castle would escape.

  "Just as the child started drooling, his father suddenly shouted out his victory. Witnessing the fall of the opponent's general, a tall, barrel-chested, ruddy-faced Zen priest, who had been looking on with the corners of his huge mouth turned down, reached over and playfully grabbed the bridge of the winner's nose with his crowbar of a thumb. 'Good game!'" He laughed.

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  "Then the man sneezed, and the boy finally got a thump on the forehead. The tobacco fell out of the pipe, and the child began to cry. The laughter of a loser. The slobber of a babe. The monk who had pinched the father's nose now looked at his fingers in disgust.

  "'Time to go,' the gentleman thought, glancing back at the post office that was sandwiched between the mercantile and the reed screen of the adjoining house. That was when she emerged. Apparently a train had arrived at the station, because a horse-drawn carriage and five or six empty rickshaws rattled past on their way to pick up passengers. Tamawaki's wife stood looking out at the street from beneath the eaves of the post office, and her eyes squarely met the gentleman's.

  "She saw him and drew back into the blind's shadow. As she retreated, he felt captivated by her eyes, which were still looking his way. He watched her there behind the screen. Her hair was piled on top of her head and held with a straight pin. Maybe that was why her eyebrows seemed longer than before. She wore a light summer kimono and had a golden chain, which looked as if it jingled as it quivered, dangling from her sash. As she continued to look back at him through the reed screen, his heart began to pound. Then her face showed at the edge of the screen, as though veiled in a mist. Dazzled by the sight of her, he bowed.

  "She looked down at the ground, and just then, sir, the telephone rang. She had been waiting for the call.

  "She disappeared into the telephone booth. But because the phone was close to the entrance, he could hear what she said.

  "'Hello. Yes, it's me. What happened? Why didn't you come? Yes, I do resent it. I can't sleep at night. I know the trains don't get here in the middle of the night. Still, I was wondering if you could come now.

  "'Me?' she continued. 'You should know. So what if you're far away? I can still hear your voice, even without a phone. But you can't hear me. That's right. So what? I know it's my fault. Don't come because you feel obligated. A little, maybe. No, you're not being ungrateful to your parents. It's a matter of life and death. Tonight, I'll wait up. No, don't say that. You know I won't sleep anyway. I do resent it. Then I'll meet you in my dreams. No, I can't wait.'

  "Did she call her Mii-chan? Or Mitsu? It was a woman's name. 'Mii-chan, I'll meet you in my dreams,' she said, then hung up the receiver."

  "I see." The wanderer was absorbed in the story.

  "When the gentleman returned to the hut that night he was in a fine mood. I was, in the words of Shiko, 'dangling my legs from the veranda, in the cool of evening.' He jumped into the wooden bathtub by the well, and we chatted while he soaked in the hot water. Both of us had to talk loudly. But as we don't have neighbors, it didn't matter. It was a lot like talking on the phone.

  "'Well, priest,' he said to me, 'the spider's slid down his thread, shining in the moonlight, down from the plum leaf, down through the steam. 'Oh, what a fine mood he was in!

  “`Banzai! Banzai!' I said. 'So tonight you're incognito?'

  "'Of course,' he answered, soaking his head and looking up at the sky. He didn't have the slightest trace of shame on his face. Judging from his everyday behavior, I didn't think he seemed like the kind of man who would be interested in someone else's wife, no matter how desperately in love he might have been. I doubted that he was actually going to see her.

  "We finished a meal of tofu garnished with greens and shared a fragrant white melon for dessert. Tightening his sash, he announced, 'I'm going over there.'

  "I was shocked. And then he left, not down the steps toward the ocean, but up the hill toward the temple."

  Although the sunlight was full around the priest and his visitor, a thin cloud lightly waved upon the mountain grass like the wings of a butterfly. Looking out past the eaves of the thatched hut, the wanderer could see that the mountain peak had become dark, hazy, and unbearably hot.

  18

  Rain? They say that when a snake comes out into the sunshine, there's sure to be a storm. And hadn't the wanderer already seen two snakes that day? Was it the covering of clouds that made the air feel so close? Perhaps that would explain the sound of flutes and drums coming from so far away, like the chirping of frogs from the other side of the mountain. And yet the sound also seemed close enough to touch— dreamy, muffled, like a gramophone playing in the fog, echoing in the distance.

  The wanderer and the priest could hear something—a vague noise, with no distinguishable voices. It sounded as if the village's shutters, pillars, doors, paper screens, pots and pans were all stretching and yawning, bored by the lengthening days. It was still before noon, yet the sounds of people laughing excitedly and the occasional lowing of cattle carried to the hut on the gentle wind.

  The wanderer listened attentively, and the priest commented, "Things are happening in the village today."

  "A festival or something?"

  "I thought you said you were staying near the station. It's right there in your neighborhood. They've remodeled the place for the emperor's visit."

  People had been talking about the event for the past month, and the inauguration ceremony for the expansion was being held that day. A stage had been built at the station, actors from Tokyo had come, and some of the local people were also joining in the performances. The dumpling-tossing ceremony had already been held, and last night's celebrations had lasted until the early hours. When he set out this morning, the wanderer had had to work his way through the crowds in order to get away, but somehow he had completely forgotten about the festivities.

  "I guess I got caught up in your story. Or maybe it's because this is such a quiet place. I forgot all about the celebration in town. In fact, the reason I came here was to get away from all the noise. But it looks like rain, don't you think?"

  The priest looked up and out past the eaves of the thatched hut. "It's getting a little sticky. I doubt it will be much of a rain, though. I could lend you an umbrella, if you want. Stay as long as you like. That is, if you're not planning to see the play tonight. Strange, isn't it? You wanted to come visit the temple, but the music's so powerful it just won't let you ignore it. When it trails away you start feeling as though you've been cut off from the rest of the world. Strange. Gloomy. Sad."

  "That's it, exactly."

  "You know, people used to say that whenever they dug a well they could hear
sounds coming from inside the earth—dogs and chickens, people's voices, the creaking of oxcart wheels. Maybe it was a little like what we're hearing now, coming from the beach down there, beneath the fog. See? You can just make out that spot of light down in the valley. What an unearthly noise! Like a band of badgers at night. Which reminds me of our gentlemen's story—

  The priest took a quick gulp of tea, then set down his cup.

  "As I was saying, when evening came the gentleman dashed up the stone steps. It wasn't inspiration that drove him, only passion. Having lived here for a while, he was more than used to the steps. He quickly climbed to the main hall, where the moonlight shone on the pillars and wooden planks, and looked out at the burning clouds on the ocean's horizon, shimmering crimson, the chaos of twilight, water and mountains all absorbed into one huge lake, the light of the setting sun leaking through the eaves, wisps of clouds gradually disappearing like a scattering of red and white lotus blossoms. Had he stayed there on the veranda, aboard the Vessel of the Law, he wouldn't have had to drown in that sea of passion. But then a most unusual thing happened. He heard the sound of flutes and drums coming from behind the temple. Listen. Hear that? It came from exactly the opposite direction."

  The priest stood and stuck a hand out past the eaves, pointing to the mountain to the left of the main hall. He got up so suddenly that his black robes blinded the wanderer's eyes, his sleeves covering the white paper doors like sumi ink flowing up to heaven.

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  "He passed before the temple and went off to the left, between the two cliffs that rise on both sides to make a tunnel to the sky. He continued through a grove of trees and came out on the back side of the mountain. The valley stretched below. Toward the water, the hills tapered off, revealing a road and a train passing by. In the other direction, the valley rose to meet the mountains that gradually accumulated, peak after peak, beneath a steadily thickening cover of clouds. Here and there, the ridges of the peaks clustered together like tree roots. In other places they surrounded broad fields, and in still others they encircled the small, charcoal-makers' huts.