Ancient Tales and Folk-Lore of Japan by Richard Gordon Smith (ebook reader android TXT) 📖

shall take my revenge,’ said O Kei, ‘by telling my father that you got me to come here by making love to me, and that you then insulted me.’

Poor Kōnojō! He was in a nice mess. What he feared most of all was that the girl would do as she said, that the samurai would believe her, and that he would be a disgraced and villainous person. He gave way, therefore, to the girl’s request. Night after night she visited him, until nearly a month had passed. During this time Kōnojō had learned to love dearly the beautiful O Kei. Talking to her one evening, he said:

‘My dearest O Kei, I do not like this secret love of ours. Is it not better that we go away? If I asked your father to give you to me in marriage he would refuse, because I was betrothed to your sister.’

‘Yes,’ answered O Kei: ‘that is what, I also have been wishing. Let us leave this very night, and go to Ishinomaki, the place where (you have told me) lives a faithful servant of your late father’s, called Kinzo.’

‘Yes: Kinzo is his name, and Ishinomaki is the place. Let us start as soon as possible.’

Having thrust a few clothes into a bag, they started secretly and late that night, and duly arrived at their destination. Kinzo was delighted to receive them, and pleased to show how hospitable he could be to his late master’s son and the beautiful lady.

They lived very happily for a year. Then one day O Kei said:

‘I think we ought to return, to my parents now. If they were angry with us at first they will have got over the worst of it. We have never written. They must be getting anxious as to my fate as they grow older. Yes: we ought to go.’

Kōnojō agreed. Long had he felt the injustice he was doing Hasunuma.

Next day they found themselves back in Sendai, and Kōnojō could not help feeling a little nervous as he approached the samurai’s house. They stopped at the outer gate, and O Kei said to Kōnojō, ‘I think it will be better for you to go in and see my father and mother first. If they get very angry show them this golden pin.

Kōnojō stepped boldly up to the door, and asked for an interview with the samurai.

Before the servant had time to return, Kōnojō heard the old man shout, ‘Kōnojō San! Why, of course! Bring the boy in at once,’ and he himself came out to welcome him.

‘My dear boy,’ said the samurai, ‘right glad am I to see you back again. I am sorry you did not find your life with us good enough. You might have said you were going. But there—I suppose you take after your father in these matters, and prefer to disappear mysteriously. You are welcome back, at all events.’

Kōnojō was astonished at this speech, and answered:

‘But, sir, I have come to beg pardon for my sin.’

‘What sin have you committed?’ queried the samurai in great surprise, and drawing himself up, in a dignified manner.

Kōnojō then gave a full account of his love-affair with O Kei. From beginning to end he told it all, and as he proceeded the samurai showed signs of impatience.

‘Do not joke, sir! My daughter O Kei San is not a subject for jokes and untruths. She has been as one dead for over a year—so ill that we have with difficulty forced gruel into her mouth. Moreover, she has spoken no word and shown no sign of life.’

‘I am neither stating what is untrue nor joking,’ said Kōnojō. ‘If you but send outside, you will find O Kei in the palanquin, in which I left her.’

A servant was immediately sent to see, and returned, stating that there was neither palanquin nor any one at the gate.

Kōnojō, seeing that the samurai was now beginning to look perplexed and angry, drew the golden pin from his clothes, saying:

‘See! if you doubt me and think I am lying, here is the pin which O Kei told me to give you!’

‘Bik-ku-ri-shi-ta-!’ 1 exclaimed O Kei’s mother. ‘How came this pin into your hands? I myself put it into Ko San’s coffin just before it was closed.’

The samurai and Kōnojō stared at each other, and the mother at both. Neither knew what to think, or what to say or do. Imagine the general surprise when the sick O Kei walked into the room, having risen from her bed as if she had never been ill for a moment. She was the picture of health and beauty.

‘How is this?’ asked the samurai, almost shouting. ‘How is it, O Kei, that you have come from your sickbed dressed and with your hair done and looking as if you had never known a moment of illness?’

‘I am not O Kei, but the spirit of O Ko,’ was the answer. ‘I was most unfortunate in dying before the return of Kōnojō San, for had I lived until then I should have become quite well and been married to him. As it was, my spirit was unhappy. It took the form of my dear sister O Kei, and for a year has lived happily in her body with Kōnojō. It is appeased now, and about to take its real rest.’

‘There is one condition, however, Kōnojō, which I must make,’ said the girl, turning to him. ‘You must marry my sister O Kei. If you do this my spirit will rest truly in peace, and then O Kei will become well and strong. Will you promise to marry O Kei?’

The old samurai, his wife, and Kōnojō were all amazed at this. The appearance of the girl was that of O Kei; but the voice and manners were those of O Ko. Then, there was the golden hairpin as further proof. The mother knew it well. She had placed it in Ko’s hair just before the tub coffin was closed. Nobody could undeceive her on that point.

‘But,’ said the samurai at last, ‘O Ko has been dead and buried for more than a year now. That you should appear to us puzzles us all. Why should you trouble us so?’

‘I have explained already,’ resumed the girl. ‘My spirit could not rest until it had lived with Kōnojō, whom it knew to be faithful. It has done this now, and is prepared to rest. My only desire is to see Kōnojō marry my sister.’

Hasunuma, his wife, and Kōnojō held a consultation. They were quite prepared that O Kei should marry, and Kōnojō did not object.

All things being settled, the ghost-girl held out her hand to Kōnojō saying:

‘This is the last time you will touch the hand of O Ko. Farewell, my dear parents! Farewell to you all! I am about to pass away.’

Then she fainted away, and seemed dead, and remained thus for half an hour; while the others, overcome with the strange and weird things which they had seen and heard, sat round her, hardly uttering a word.

At the end of half an hour the body came to life, and standing up, said:

‘Dear parents, have no more fear for me. I am perfectly well again; but I have no idea how I got down from my sick-room in this costume, or how it is that I feel so well.’

Several questions were put to her; but it was quite evident that O Kei knew nothing of what had happened—nothing of the spirit of O Ko San, or of the golden hairpin!

A week later she and Kōnojō were married, and the golden hairpin was given to a shrine at Shiogama, to which, until quite recently, crowds used to go and worship.

Footnotes

1:1 This story savours of ‘Botan Dōrō,’ or Peony Lantern story, told both by Mitford and by Lafcadio Hearn. In this instance, however, the spirit of the dead sister passes into the body of the living one, assumes her form, leaves her sick and ill for over a year, and then allows her to reappear as if she had never been ill at all. It is the first story of its kind I have heard.

3:1 ‘O’ means Honourable Miss; ‘San’ means Miss. Either will do; but Ko is the name.

4:1 Family shrine.

5:1 Lamp.

9:1 An exclamation, such as ‘Great Scot!’

3. Heitaro meets Higo Under the Willow Tree

II THE SPIRIT OF THE WILLOW TREE

ABOUT one thousand years ago (but according to the dates of the story 744 years ago) the temple of ‘San-jū-san-gen Do’ was founded. That was in 1132. ‘San-jū-san-gen Do’ means hall of thirty-three spaces; and there are said to be over 33,333 figures of the Goddess Kwannon, the Goddess of Mercy, in the temple to-day. Before the temple was built, in a village near by stood a willow tree of great size. It marked the playing-ground of all the village children, who swung on its branches, and climbed on its limbs. It afforded shade to the aged in the heat of summer, and in the evenings, when work was done, many were the village lads and lasses who vowed eternal love under its branches. The tree seemed an influence for good to all. Even the weary traveller could sleep peacefully and almost dry under its branches. Alas, even in those times men were often ruthless with regard to trees. One day the villagers announced an intention to cut it down and use it to build a bridge across the river.

There lived in the village a young farmer named

Heitaro, a great favourite, who had lived near the old tree all his days, as his forefathers had done; and he was greatly against cutting it down.

Such a tree should be respected, thought he. Had it not braved the storms of hundreds of years? In the heat of summer what pleasure it afforded the children! Did it not give to the weary shelter, and to the love-smitten a sense of romance? All these thoughts Heitaro impressed upon the villagers. ‘Sooner than approve your cutting it down,’ he said, ‘I will give you as many of my own trees as you require to build the bridge. You must leave this dear old willow alone for ever.’

The villagers readily agreed. They also had a secret veneration for the old tree.

Heitaro was delighted, and readily found wood with which to build the bridge.

Some days later Heitaro, returning from his work, found standing by the willow a beautiful girl.

Instinctively he bowed to her. She returned the bow. They spoke together of the tree, its age and beauty. They seemed, in fact, to be drawn towards each other by a common sympathy. Heitaro was sorry when she said that she must be going, and bade him good-day. That evening his mind was far from being fixed on the ordinary things of life. ‘Who was the lady under the willow tree? How I wish I could see her again!’ thought he. There was no sleep for Heitaro that night. He had caught the fever of love.

Next day he was at his work early; and he remained at it all day, working doubly hard, so as to try and forget the lady of the willow tree; but on his way home in the evening, behold, there was the lady again! This time she came forward to greet him in the most friendly way.

‘Welcome, good friend!’ she said. ‘Come and rest under the branches of the willow you love so well, for you must be tired.’

Heitaro readily accepted this invitation, and not only did he rest, but also he declared his love.

Day by day after this the mysterious girl (whom no others had seen) used to meet Heitaro, and