Part 16

"My mother bade me spin fine thread Out of the yellow sea sand-- A hard task, a hard task. May the dear gods speed me! My father gave me a basket of reeds; He said, 'Draw water from the spring And carry it a mile'-- A hard task, a hard task. May the dear gods speed me! My heart would remember, My heart must forget; Forget, my heart, forget-- A hard task, a hard task. May the dear gods speed me!"

"Sweet," he said, "what does this song mean, and why do you sing it?"

She answered, "My lord, it means that I must leave you, and therefore do I sing it. I must forget you; you must forget me. That is my desire."

He said, "I will never forget you, not in a thousand existences."

She smiled, "Pray the gods you may wed a sweet wife and have children."

He cried, "No wife but you, and no children but yours, O Flower of the Cherry."

"The gods forbid, my dear, my dear. All the world lies between us."

The next day she was gone. High and low the lover wandered, weeping and lamenting and seeking her both near and far. It was all in vain, for he found her not. The city of Yedo knew her no more--Sakura-ko, the beautiful dancer.

And her lover mourned many many days. Howbeit at last he was comforted, and they found for him a very sweet fair lady whom he took to wife willingly enough, and soon she bore him a son. And he was glad, for time dries all tears.

Now when the boy was five years old he sat in the gate of his father's house. And it chanced that a wandering nun came that way begging for alms. The servants of the house brought rice and would have put it into her begging bowl, but the child said, "Let me give."

So he did as he would.

As he filled the begging bowl and patted down the rice with a wooden spoon and laughed, the nun caught him by the sleeve and held him and looked into his eyes.

"Holy nun, why do you look at me so?" cried the child.

She said, "Because I once had a little boy like you, and I went away and left him."

"Poor little boy!" said the child.

"It was better for him, my dear, my dear--far, far better."

And when she had said this, she went her way.

XXXV

HANA-SAKA-JIJI

In the early days there lived a good old couple. All their lives long they had been honest and hard-working, but they had always been poor. Now in their old age it was all they could do to make both ends meet, the poor old creatures.

But they did not complain, not a bit of it. They were merry as the day is long. If they ever went to bed cold or hungry they said nothing about it, and if they had bite or sup in the house you may be sure they shared it with their dog, for they were very fond of him. He was faithful, good, and clever. One evening the old man and the old woman went out to do a bit of digging in their garden, and the dog went with them.

While they were working the dog was sniffing the ground, and presently he began to scratch up the earth with his paws.

"What can the dog be about now?" says the old woman.

"Oh, just nothing at all," says the old man; "he's playing."

"It's more than playing," says the old woman. "It's my belief he's found something worth having."

So off she went to see what the dog would be at, and the old man followed her and leaned on his spade. Sure enough the dog had dug a pretty big hole by this time, and he went on scratching with his paws for dear life and barking short and sharp. The old man helped with his spade, and before long they came on a big box of hidden treasure, silver and gold and jewels and rich stuffs.

It is easy to believe that the good old couple were glad. They patted their clever dog, and he jumped up and licked their faces. After this they carried the treasure into the house. The dog ran to and fro and barked.

Now, next door to the good old couple lived another old couple, not so good as they, but envious and discontented. When the dog found the hidden treasure they looked through a hole in the bamboo hedge and saw the whole affair. Do you think they were pleased? Why, not a bit of it. They were so angry and envious that they could get no pleasure by day nor rest at night.

At last the bad old man came to the good old man.

"I've come to ask for the loan of your dog," he says.

"With all my heart," says the good old man; "take him and welcome."

So the bad old man took the dog and brought him to their best room. And the bad old man and his wife put a supper, of all manner of fine things to eat, before the dog, and bade him fall to.

"Honourable Dog," they said, "you are good and wise, eat and afterwards find us treasure."

But the dog would not eat.

"All the more left for us," said the greedy old couple, and they ate up the dog's supper in a twinkling. Then they tied a string round his neck and dragged him into the garden to find treasure. But never a morsel of treasure did he find, nor a glint of gold, nor a shred of rich stuff.

"The devil's in the beast," cries the bad old man, and he beat the dog with a big stick. Then the dog began to scratch up the earth with his paws.

"Oho! Oho!" says the bad old man to his wife, "now for the treasure."

But was it treasure that the dog dug up? Not a bit of it. It was a heap of loathly rubbish, too bad to tell of. But they say it smelt most vilely and the bad old couple were fain to run away, hiding their noses with their sleeves.

"Arah, arah!" they cried, "the dog has deceived us." And that very night they killed the poor dog and buried him at the foot of a tall pine tree.

Alack for the good old man and the good old woman when they heard the dog was gone! It was they that wept the bitter tears. They pulled flowers and strewed them on the poor dog's grave. They burned incense and they spread out good things to eat, and the vapour that rose from them comforted the poor dog's spirit.

Then the good old man cut down the pine tree, and made a mortar of its wood. He put rice in the mortar and pounded the rice with a pestle.

"Wonder of wonders," cried the old woman, who was looking on, "wonder of wonders, good man, our rice is all turned into broad gold pieces!"

So it was sure enough.

Presently, in comes the bad old man to ask for the loan of the mortar.

"For I'm needing a mortar something very special," says he.

"Take it," says the good old man; "I'm sure you're welcome."

So the bad old man took away the mortar under his arm, and when he had got it home he filled it with rice in a twinkling. And he pounded away at it for dear life's sake.

"Do you see any gold coming?" he says to his wife, who was looking on.

"Never a bit," she says, "but the rice looks queer."

Queer enough it was, mildewed and rotten, no use to man or beast.

"Arah, arah!" they cried, "the mortar has deceived us." And they didn't let the grass grow under their feet, but lit a fire and burnt the mortar.

Now the good old couple had lost their fairy mortar. But they never said a word, the patient old folk. The good old man took some of the ashes of the mortar and went his way.

Now it was mid-winter time, and all the trees were bare. There was not a flower to be seen, nor yet a little green leaf.

What does the good old man do but climb into a cherry tree and scatter a handful of his ashes over the branches? In a moment the tree was covered with blossoms.

"It will do," says the good old man, and down he gets from the tree and off he sets for the Prince's palace, where he knocks at the gate as bold as brass.

"Who are you?" they ask him.

"I am _Hana-saka-jiji_," says the old man, "the man who makes dead trees to blossom; my business is with the Prince."

Mighty pleased the Prince was when he saw his cherry trees and his peach trees and his plum trees rush into blossom.

"Why," he said, "it is mid-winter, and we have the joys of spring." And he called forth his lady wife and her maidens and all his own retainers to see the work of _Hana-saka-jiji_. At last he sent the old man home with a passing rich reward.

Now what of the bad old couple? Were they content to let well alone? Oh no.

They gathered together all the ashes that were left, and when they had put them in a basket they went about the town crying:

"We are the _Hana-saka-jiji_. We can make dead trees blossom."

Presently out comes the Prince and all his company to see the show. And the bad old man climbs up into a tree forthwith and scatters his ashes.

But the tree never blossomed, never a bit. The ashes flew into the Prince's eyes, and the Prince flew into a rage. There was a pretty to-do. The bad old couple were caught and well beaten. Sad and sorry they crept home at night. It is to be hoped that they mended their ways. Howbeit the good people, their neighbours, grew rich and lived happy all their days.

XXXVI

THE MOON MAIDEN

There was an old bamboo cutter called Také Tori. He was an honest old man, very poor and hard-working, and he lived with his good old wife in a cottage on the hills. Children they had none, and little comfort in their old age, poor souls.

Také Tori rose early upon a summer morning, and went forth to cut bamboos as was his wont, for he sold them for a fair price in the town, and thus he gained his humble living.

Up the steep hillside he went, and came to the bamboo grove quite wearied out. He took his blue _tenegui_ and wiped his forehead, "Alack for my old bones!" he said. "I am not so young as I once was, nor the good wife either, and there's no chick nor child to help us in our old age, more's the pity." He sighed as he got to work, poor Také Tori.

Soon he saw a bright light shining among the green stems of the bamboos.

"What is this?" said Také Tori, for as a rule it was dim and shady enough in the bamboo grove. "Is it the sun?" said Také Tori. "No, that cannot well be, for it comes from the ground." Very soon he pushed his way through the bamboo stems to see what the bright light came from. Sure enough it came from the root of a great big green bamboo. Také Tori took his axe and cut down the great big green bamboo, and there was a fine shining green jewel, the size of his two fists.

"Wonder of wonders!" cried Také Tori. "Wonder of wonders! For five-and-thirty years I've cut bamboo. This is the very first time I've found a great big green jewel at the root of one of them." With that he takes up the jewel in his hands, and as soon as he does that, it bursts in two with a loud noise, if you'll believe it, and out of it came a young person and stood on Také Tori's hand.

You must understand the young person was small but very beautiful. She was dressed all in green silk.

"Greetings to you, Také Tori," she says, as easy as you please.

"Mercy me!" says Také Tori. "Thank you kindly. I suppose, now, you'll be a fairy," he says, "if I'm not making too bold in asking?"

"You're right," she says, "it's a fairy I am, and I'm come to live with you and your good wife for a little."

"Well, now," says Také Tori, "begging your pardon, we're very poor. Our cottage is good enough, but I'm afraid there'd be no comforts for a lady like you."

"Where's the big green jewel?" says the fairy.

Take Tori picks up the two halves. "Why, it's full of gold pieces," he says.

"That will do to go on with," says the fairy; "and now, Také Tori, let us make for home."

Home they went. "Wife! wife!" cried Také Tori, "here's a fairy come to live with us, and she has brought us a shining jewel as big as a persimmon, full of gold pieces."

The good wife came running to the door. She could hardly believe her eyes.

"What is this," she said, "about a persimmon and gold pieces? Persimmons I have seen often enough--moreover, it is the season--but gold pieces are hard to come by."

"Let be, woman," said Také Tori, "you are dull." And he brought the fairy into the house.

Wondrous fast the fairy grew. Before many days were gone she was a fine tall maiden, as fresh and as fair as the morning, as bright as the noonday, as sweet and still as the evening, and as deep as the night. Také Tori called her the Lady Beaming Bright, because she had come out of the shining jewel.

Take Tori had the gold pieces out of the jewel every day. He grew rich, and spent his money like a man, but there was always plenty and to spare. He built him a fine house, he had servants to wait on him. The Lady Beaming Bright was lodged like an empress. Her beauty was famed both near and far, and scores of lovers came to seek her hand.

But she would have none of them. "Také Tori and the dear good wife are my true lovers," she said; "I will live with them and be their daughter."

So three happy years went by; and in the third year the Mikado himself came to woo the Lady Beaming Bright. He was the brave lover, indeed.

"Lady," he said, "I bow before you, my soul salutes you. Sweet lady, be my Queen."

Then the Lady Beaming Bright sighed and great tears stood in her eyes, and she hid her face with her sleeve.

"Lord, I cannot," she said.

"Cannot?" said the Mikado; "and why not, O dear Lady Beaming Bright?"

"Wait and see, lord," she said.

Now about the seventh month she grew very sorrowful, and would go abroad no more, but was for long upon the garden gallery of Také Tori's house. There she sat in the daytime and brooded. There she sat at night and gazed upon the moon and the stars. There she was one fine night when the moon was at its full. Her maidens were with her, and Také Tori and the good wife, and the Mikado, her brave lover.

"How bright the moon shines!" said Také Tori.

"Truly," said the good wife, "it is like a brass saucepan well scoured."

"See how pale and wan it is," said the Mikado; "it is like a sad despairing lover."

"How long and bright a beam!" quoth Také Tori. "It is like a highway from the moon reaching to this garden gallery."

"O dear foster-father," cried the Lady Beaming Bright. "You speak truth, it is a highway indeed. And along the highway come countless heavenly beings swiftly, swiftly, to bear me home. My father is the King of the Moon. I disobeyed his behest. He sent me to earth three years to dwell in exile. The three years are past and I go to mine own country. Ah, I am sad at parting."

"The mist descends," said Také Tori.

"Nay," said the Mikado, "it is the cohorts of the King of the Moon."

Down they came in their hundreds and their thousands, bearing torches. Silently they came, and lighted round about the garden gallery. The chief among them brought a heavenly feather robe. Up rose the Lady Beaming Bright and put the robe upon her.

"Farewell, Také Tori," she said, "farewell, dear foster-mother, I leave you my jewel for a remembrance.... As for you, my lord, I would you might come with me--but there is no feather robe for you. I leave you a phial of the pure elixir of life. Drink, my lord, and be even as the Immortals."

Then she spread her bright wings and the cohorts of Heaven closed about her. Together they passed up the highway to the moon, and were no more seen.

The Mikado took the elixir of life in his hand, and he went to the top of the highest mountain in that country. And he made a great fire to consume the elixir of life, for he said, "Of what profit shall it be to me to live for ever, being parted from the Lady Beaming Bright?"

So the elixir of life was consumed, and its blue vapour floated up to Heaven. And the Mikado said, "Let my message float up with the vapour and reach the ears of my Lady Beaming Bright."

XXXVII

KARMA

[Illustration: Karma.--_P. 270._]

The young man, Ito Tatewaki, was returning homeward after a journey which he had taken to the city of Kioto. He made his way alone and on foot, and he went with his eyes bent upon the ground, for cares weighed him down and his mind was full of the business which had taken him to Kioto. Night found him upon a lonely road leading across a wild moor. Upon the moor were rocks and stones, with an abundance of flowers, for it was summer time, and here and there grew a dark pine tree, with gnarled trunk and crooked boughs.

Tatewaki looked up and beheld the figure of a woman before him in the way. It was a slender girl dressed in a simple gown of blue cotton. Lightly she went along the lonely road in the deepening twilight.

"I should say she was the serving-maid of some gentle lady," Tatewaki said to himself. "The way is solitary and the time is dreary for such a child as she."

So the young man quickened his pace and came up with the maiden. "Child," he said very gently, "since we tread the same lonely road let us be fellow-travellers, for now the twilight passes and it will soon be dark."

The pretty maiden turned to him with bright eyes and smiling lips.

"Sir," she said, "my mistress will be glad indeed."

"Your mistress?" said Tatewaki.

"Why, sir, of a surety she will be glad because you are come."

"Because I am come?"

"Indeed, and indeed the time has been long," said the serving-maid; "but now she will think no more of that."

"Will she not?" said Tatewaki. And on he went by the maiden's side, walking as one in a dream.

Presently the two of them came to a little house, not far from the roadside. Before the house was a small fair garden, with a stream running through it and a stone bridge. About the house and the garden there was a bamboo fence, and in the fence a wicket-gate.

"Here dwells my mistress," said the serving-maid. And they went into the garden through the wicket-gate.

Now Tatewaki came to the threshold of the house. He saw a lady standing upon the threshold waiting.

She said, "You have come at last, my lord, to give me comfort."

And he answered, "I have come."

When he had said this he knew that he loved the lady, and had loved her since love was.

"O love, love," he murmured, "time is not for such as we."

Then she took him by the hand, and they went into the house together and into a room with white mats and a round latticed window.

Before the window there stood a lily in a vessel of water.

Here the two held converse together.

And after some time there was an old ancient woman that came with _saké_ in a silver flagon; and she brought silver drinking-cups and all things needful. And Tatewaki and the lady drank the "Three Times Three" together. When they had done this the lady said, "Love, let us go out into the shine of the moon. See, the night is as green as an emerald...."

So they went and left the house and the small fair garden behind them. Or ever they had closed the wicket-gate the house and the garden and the wicket-gate itself all faded away, dissolving in a faint mist, and not a sign of them was left.

"Alas! what is this?" cried Tatewaki.

"Let be, dear love," said the lady, and smiled; "they pass, for we have no more need of them."

Then Tatewaki saw that he was alone with the lady upon the wild moor. And the tall lilies grew about them in a ring. So they stood the live-long night, not touching one another but looking into each other's eyes most steadfastly. When dawn came, the lady stirred and gave one deep sigh.

Tatewaki said, "Lady, why do you sigh?"

And when he asked her this, she unclasped her girdle, which was fashioned after the form of a golden scaled dragon with translucent eyes. And she took the girdle and wound it nine times about her love's arm, and she said, "O love, we part: these are the years until we meet again." So she touched the golden circles on his arm.

Then Tatewaki cried aloud, "O love, who are you? Tell me your name...."

She said, "O love, what have we to do with names, you and I?... I go to my people upon the plains. Do not seek for me there.... Wait for me."

And when the lady had spoken she faded slowly and grew ethereal, like a mist. And Tatewaki cast himself upon the ground and put out his hand to hold her sleeve. But he could not stay her. And his hand grew cold and he lay still as one dead, all in the grey dawn.

When the sun was up he arose.

"The plains," he said, "the low plains ... there will I find her." So, with the golden token wound about his arm, fleetly he sped down, down to the plains. He came to the broad river, where he saw folk standing on the green banks. And on the river there floated boats of fresh flowers, the red dianthus and the campanula, golden rod and meadow-sweet. And the people upon the river banks called to Tatewaki:

"Stay with us. Last night was the Night of Souls. They came to earth and wandered where they would, the kind wind carried them. To-day they return to Yomi. They go in their boats of flowers, the river bears them. Stay with us and bid the departing Souls good speed."

And Tatewaki cried, "May the Souls have sweet passage.... I cannot stay."