The Biwa and the Water Koto
by Francesca Forrest
Francesca Forrest currently lives at the edge of a swamp in western Massachusetts, but at one time she lived in a thatched cottage in England, and at another, in Kyoto, the ancient capital of Japan. She has also studied classical Japanese literature and history. Her previous publications include an entry (the firefly bellflower) in The Field Guide to Surreal Botany (Two Cranes Press, 2008) and a short story (“The Oracle”) in the YA issue of the online journal, Coyote Wild.
About “The Biwa and the Water Koto” she writes, “Biwas have been played in Japan since classical times; in the famous story by Lafcadio Hearn, “Miminashi Hôichi (Earless Hôichi),” the biwa player sings the Tale of the Heike to the ghosts of the Heike warriors. Kappas, for their part, are well known in Japanese folklore, and water kotos, literally “water koto caves” (suikinkutsu) are also real, although none, to my knowledge, is actually big enough to walk into, and none has been proven to be the home of a kappa.”
“I have a small problem,” Tadahiro said, propping himself on his elbows. He leaned forward and slid the shoji door open to reveal a rainy night, a temple garden of shadows and silhouettes, shrubs deep in meditation. “Larger than small, actually. Quite large, in fact.”
Yuko looked up at him. Had they been laughing only minutes before? Now his face was grave, his tone sober.
“What possible problem can burden someone as well-loved as you? Everyone, including the crown prince, wants you for a biwa instructor. All the ladies forget their husbands and their lovers when they hear you play. Unless some rival or slighted lady wishes you ill?” Yuko couldn’t repress a twinge of jealousy at the thought of all those admirers. She sighed. Her pious intentions, a retreat at this temple, had been sincere, but it would clearly take more than copying out lines from the Flower Garland sutra to free her from earthly attachments.
“It’s not the music that’s the problem, but the instrument. When I first started helping the abbot tune up his playing, I borrowed one of the biwas from the imperial treasury for him to use—it seemed only proper, since he was an imperial prince before retiring from the world. Unfortunately, I borrowed it rather unofficially...and now the treasury wants it back. For some reason, the abbot says I’m mistaken about the biwa, and that it has belonged to the temple all along. Not only will he not return it,” continued Tadahiro, frowning, “but he has banned me from the temple grounds. I shouldn’t even be here now.”
“Th-that doesn’t make sense,” said Yuko, stunned. “Why should he do such a thing?”
Tadahiro tilted his head. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“When must you return it?”
“Within the next few days.”
“And if you fail?”
“Then I become a thief. A thief who’s stolen from the imperial treasury,” said Tadahiro, looking Yuko full in the face. Yuko tried to speak, but words wouldn’t come. She dropped her eyes. When she looked up, he was gazing out at the garden again.
“It’s getting light. I must go,” he said. Yuko pushed herself up abruptly, and the robe that had been covering both of them slid off her shoulders.
“My retreat lasts three more days,” she said. “I’ll look for it. I’ll find it for you.”
~o0o~
Yuko’s hand was as unsteady as a small child’s as she attempted to copy more verses from the Flower Garland sutra later that day. Her thoughts returned to Tadahiro’s words, and at noon, when she turned in her completed work, she decided to see what she could learn from the taciturn monk who had come to collect it.
“In the chapter I’ve just copied, it says, ‘Unobstructed, the Buddha’s concert of wonderful sounds pervades all lands of the ten directions.’ The abbot plays a number of musical instruments, doesn’t he? I’ve heard that he practices with the crown prince’s biwa instructor. Are they likely to play together before I leave?”
From where she sat behind a screen, Yuko could not tell whether the monk’s prolonged silence reflected anger, confusion, or some other emotion. At last, he spoke.
“The abbot has recently embarked on a program of soul-cleansing austerities. I do not believe he intends to give a performance any time soon.”
“I see. Well, then. I suppose he must have returned the biwa the instructor lent him, from the imperial treasury. I had been hoping to hear it—it’s said to have a lovely sound.”
“The abbot has never used a borrowed instrument,” the monk said sharply. “The temple has its own biwa, a treasure brought over from the land of Kara two centuries ago by our founder.”
“Really? Then that must be a lovely instrument as well. Would there be any chance of my seeing it?”
There was another long pause from the other side of the screen. Then,
“I’m afraid not. That biwa has a destiny, and it goes where it needs to go. And right now, it has chosen to remove itself from worldly affairs.”
“Certainly all things have their own destiny,” Yuko murmured, happy to end the conversation.
It has chosen to remove itself. Could the instrument have been stolen, or worse yet, destroyed? The thought made Yuko sick. If the biwa was irrecoverable, then Tadahiro could not be saved. Perhaps it was hidden away. Maybe the abbot was engaging in austerities to atone for worldly desires, worldly desires that extended to claiming the imperial biwa for the temple.
Yuko would have to search all the temple buildings, which meant that she would need more freedom of movement than was generally afforded a lady of high degree. Fortunately, Yuko had long ago discovered the solution to that problem: one had simply to change one’s degree. Any of her attendants would be more than willing to trade places with her for a day, but it was Ukon who had played this little game with her in the past and Ukon whom she trusted most. The following morning, it was Ukon who dressed in Yuko’s elegant but cumbersome layers of robes and combed her hair into a black river down her back.
Yuko, for her part, tied her hair back and put on Ukon’s plain robe and hakama skirts. Directing Ukon to say she was feeling unwell and not to go to prayers, Yuko slid open the doors of her quarters and stepped out onto the veranda.
Wonderful! The breeze, the sunlight! Why couldn’t the doors to the veranda always be open, wide open?
One of the monks crossing the courtyard, seeing Yuko, bowed and started to approach. By walking purposefully away, Yuko avoided a conversation. She’d need to decline a bit more in degree, clearly, if she wanted to walk about unnoticed. She studied the garden. Over there, men were pruning the azaleas and the boxwood. Near the main hall, a man swept the stone path. Yuko sighed. All men. But here, coming through a side entrance, was a girl with a basket of flowers on her head.
Flowers for the altars, thought Yuko. This girl will visit every building in the temple, and no one will give her a second glance. Yuko hurried to intercept her.
“Excuse me! Hello! You! Please, come speak with me.” What a botched salutation! But how do you call to someone you don’t know, someone of no rank?
The girl hurried over. Indeed, the next moment she was standing right in front of Yuko, balancing her flowers with one hand and staring at Yuko full in the face, eyes wide. It was most disconcerting.
“Yes, my lady?”
“I have a favor to ask of you. I’d like you to let me take the flowers to the altars.”
The girl made no reply, but her mouth drooped and her eyebrows drew together, creating wrinkles on her young brow.
“And, if you will allow me, I have a present for you,” Yuko added, trying to keep her voice gentle and calm. She slipped off Ukon’s thin silk overrobe and held it out.
“For you.”
“R-really?” The girl set her flower basket down and ran her fingers over the silk.
“Yes. Take it.”
The girl hesitated, then lifted the robe up and touched the silk to her cheek. She flashed a startling, bright smile.
“Thank you, my lady! You can take a
ll the flowers, that’s just fine!”
With a little effort, Yuko was also able to persuade the flower seller to lend Yuko her jacket and leggings, and in return, she helped the flower seller on with Ukon’s hakama skirts. The two made the switch in a secluded spot behind a stone lantern and a giant boulder.
The flower seller spun around in her temporary finery, smiling, and smoothed her hands down over the robe and hakama. She gave another face-splitting smile, then bowed deeply to Yuko and made her way from the courtyard with eager, bouncing steps totally unlike those of any lady in waiting.
Alone and unobserved in the temple courtyard, Yuko eyed the basket of flowers. Could she balance it on her head the way the flower seller had? Probably not; better to carry it on her arm. Lifting it into what she hoped was the suitable position, she headed for the storehouse. What better place for a biwa to retire to than a storehouse?
Before a wash basin beside a small shrine to Miroku, the Buddha to Come, a strange noise caught Yuko’s ear, a sound like someone plucking the strings of an instrument. Not a biwa; the notes were more like those of a koto. But no, that wasn’t quite right either. The notes had a metallic air, reminiscent of a bell—a tiny bell, a distant bell.
Yuko took a step closer to the shrine, and the notes grew ever so slightly louder. A shiver traveled down her spine. Whose music was this? She peered at Miroku, his seated stone figure, his head tilted as if lost in thought. His?
More notes sounded, light as air, but liquid as water, and seemly born right out of the earth. The earth’s music?
“You there—are you planning on delivering those flowers? Yesterday’s are drooping; the altars could use some fresh ones.”
Yuko turned her head, though her attention was still on the ethereal sounds, and her eyes met those of one of the novice monks. His eyes lingered on her face, not sun-darkened, like the flower seller’s, but pale from a lifetime hidden in the inner rooms of her father’s mansion. He grew pale and took a step back.
“You’re not the flower seller,” he whispered. “You’re dressed like her, but you’re not her.”
Three notes, random and beautiful, hung in the air. Then another, then two more.
“Do you hear that?” whispered Yuko.
“You—you must be a fox spirit in human form!” The novice glanced over his shoulder, but the activity of the morning had given way to noonday stillness. No one was about. He wiped his hand across his head.
“Do you hear that?” repeated Yuko. “Where is that music coming from?”
“You mean the water koto?”
“Water koto?”
“Yes; look.” With a trembling hand, the novice took the ladle from the wash basin in one hand and poured the water over his other hand. It fell onto the rocks in front of Miroku, and instantly there came a series of notes, echoing as if resonating in an underworld hall.
“It comes from down there,” the novice said, keeping his eyes averted from Yuko’s face. “There’s a metal chamber down there, like a buried bell. It plays for days after any rainfall— water trickles down into a pool at the bottom of the bell, and make the notes we hear, just like a koto being plucked. Is—is that what drew you here? The music of the water koto?”
Another note reached Yuko’s ear, different from the others. This one truly did sound plucked, and not like a koto, but like a biwa. Then came two more such notes, horribly flat and twanging miserably. And then more otherworldly notes from the water koto.
“Yes,” murmured Yuko. “Yes, this is what drew me here.” She reached for the ladle, placing her hand just below his on the handle, so their fingers were nearly touching. He looked up, and she held his eyes with her gaze.
“You said there’s a chamber down there. Can you take me to it?”
The poor novice’s mouth opened and closed like a carp’s.
“If you don’t want me to place a spell on you, you will take me there immediately,” said Yuko, standing as straight and tall as she could and trying to look as much like a fox spirit as possible.
The novice hunched his shoulders and nodded. Silently he led Yuko out the side entrance of the temple and along a path that wandered down the side of a steep hill. Halfway down was a cleft in an outcropping of rock, tall enough to admit a man, but narrow. The novice turned to Yuko.
“I don’t think even a fox spirit should go in there,” he said.
“Fox spirits live for music like this,” replied Yuko.
“There’s something else besides music in there.” The novice frowned. “Listen,” he said in a rush, “the abbot always used to come here to meditate and to play the biwa. Then last month, he came back to the temple pale as a ghost, and without the biwa. He was ill for days, and he’s never been back since.”
Then that really was the imperial biwa I heard, thought Yuko. But why did the abbot leave it underground? The novice had a point: the water koto might play of its own accord, as drops of water trickled into the subterranean pool, but who was playing—or attempting to play—the biwa?
“Please don’t go down there,” begged the novice.
“My magic will protect me,” said Yuko, with more confidence than she felt. Then, as an afterthought, “You needn’t come along. You have other duties.”
“Yes! Yes, I do—thank you!” He gave the most perfunctory of bows and hurried back the way they had come at twice the speed of their descent.
Yuko stepped into the cleft. Cool damp wafted up to greet her, and blackness. She glanced back at the brilliant sunlight. A real fox spirit would be able to carry the sun’s rays along in a paper lantern, or would make its eyes glow so brightly that it didn’t need one. Looking around, she spied an oil lamp set in readiness on a ledge in the wall. The abbot hadn’t been here for a month. Would it still be filled?
It was, and equally fortuitous, the tools for lighting it lay right beside it. With a minimum of fumbling, Yuko got it lit, and by its shy flame made her way in careful steps deeper underground.
The path curved around and down, and after about a hundred paces, Yuko noticed that the pinpoint of light from the lantern gleaming on walls not of rock but of bronze, smooth and high. She lifted the lantern up, and flashes of red and gold shone through an overlying lacework of green patina. The narrow path upon which she stood, slick with moisture, disappeared into a pool of water. Yuko took a step backward.
High overhead, at the apex of the bell, a patch of daylight was faintly visible, and in its light Yuko could see drops of water sparkling as they fell. When they struck the pool below, musical sounds filled the space. Unearthly.
Yuko held the lantern out over the water, moving her arm slowly in a wide arc. There! flickering in and out of view, a smooth rock protruding from the water, large and broad enough to sit on. The abbot must have come to that rock and in the darkness harmonized his music with that of the water koto.
Yuko caught her breath. Someone or something was sitting—well, lying really—on that rock now. She strained her eyes to make out who or what it was. Unmoving, it appeared to be a pile of discarded robes. Could the abbot have left in so much of a hurry that his robes stayed behind? And where was the biwa? Yuko leaned over the water with the lantern. This time, the flame flashed off the mother-of-pearl inlay on the front of the pregnant-bellied, long-necked form of the biwa, resting beside the robes.
Yuko drew back the lantern and its little sphere of light. The rock, the robes, and the biwa melted back into blackness.
How to reach the rock? Yuko held out the lantern again, but could spy no bridge, no stepping stones. Could she wade over? All right then, if there was no other way.
She stepped into the water. The shock of the cold made her fingers tingle, but the water reached no higher than her ankle. Another step. Now the water soaked through the flower seller’s white leggings, but only to her knees.
Another step. Nearly there.
On the rock, the pile of robes stirred. Yuko stifled a scream. She tried to take a step backward. Something twined a
bout her feet and held her fast. Panicked, she pulled back, but only succeeded in losing her balance.
The lantern hit the water and went out with a hiss. Yuko struggled to break free of the entanglement. Water pressed in around her chest. It lifted her hair out from where it had been hidden in the jacket and gave her garments the weight of lead. In a moment, if she couldn’t get free, she would surely be pulled under. Horror drove Yuko to kick and twist more fiercely.
Her arm hit something hard and smooth—the rock! She tried to hold onto it, tried to pull herself up, but whatever had caught at her legs had a will, and its will was to have her submerged in the water. With a cry, Yuko made one last effort to gain purchase on the rock. This time, her hand hit the biwa.
At the ringing echo this produced, there came a splash. Suddenly, Yuko’s legs were free. She pulled herself out of the water and huddled on the rock, shivering.
Beside her, something stirred. Yuko froze. She didn’t want to go back into the pool again, but what was she trapped with here on the rock? The movement ceased, and she heard a faint groan. Whatever she was sharing the rock with, it seemed in worse shape than she was. She reached out, and her hand touched patterned brocade, then arms, chest, and—she drew her hand away, very wet. An open wound. Yuko pulled the robe over the wound and pressed the cloth to it. Hands tried feebly to push her away.
“Stop!” she said, “I’m trying to help you.”
“Yuko?” Weak though the voice was, it was clearly Tadahiro’s.
“Tadahiro! What’s happened to you?”
Something broke the surface of the water. With a wet slap, slap, it climbed onto the rock and settled itself beside Yuko, exuding an aura of mud and fish.
“Wicked thief,” said a gravelly voice. “He tried to take away the biwa. Now he’ll be my dinner. The biwa stays. Must sing to the water music again. One day, some day, like before.”
Perhaps an evening shower was passing through in the upper world, for suddenly a whole arpeggio of notes tinkled and echoed in the water koto. The creature imitated the sound, its voice rising in hoarse chirps. Then came an unhappy, discordant twang from the biwa, and a long exhalation of dank air.
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