So Akinosuké and his bride departed from the palace of Tokoyo, accompanied to the shore by a great escort of nobles and officials; and they embarked upon a ship of state provided by the king. And with favoring winds they safely sailed to Raishū, and found the good people of that island assembled upon the beach to welcome them.
Akinosuké entered at once upon his new duties; and they did not prove to be hard. During the first three years of his governorship he was occupied chiefly with the framing and the enactment of laws; but he had wise counselors to help him, and he never found the work unpleasant. When it was all finished, he had no active duties to perform, beyond attending the rites and ceremonies ordained by ancient custom. The country was so healthy and so fertile that sickness and want were unknown; and the people were so good that no laws were ever broken. And Akinosuké dwelt and ruled in Raishū for twenty years more, — making in all twenty-three years of sojourn, during which no shadow of sorrow traversed his life.
But in the twenty-fourth year of his governorship, a great misfortune came upon him; for his wife, who had borne him seven children, — five boys and two girls, — fell sick and died. She was buried, with high pomp, on the summit of a beautiful hill in the district of Hanryōkō; and a monument, exceedingly splendid, was placed above her grave. But Akinosuké felt such grief at her death that he no longer cared to live.
Now when the legal period of mourning was over, there came to Raishū, from the Tokoyo palace, a shisha, or royal messenger. The shisha delivered to Akinosuké a message of condolence, and then said to him: —
"These are the words which our august master, the King of Tokoyo, commands that I repeat to you: 'We will now send you back to your own people and country. As for the seven children, they are the grandsons and the granddaughters of the King, and shall be fitly cared for. Do not, therefore, allow your mind to be troubled concerning them.' "
On receiving this mandate, Akinosuké submissively prepared for his departure. When all his affairs had been settled, and the ceremony of bidding farewell to his counselors and trusted officials had been concluded, he was escorted with much honor to the port. There he embarked upon the ship sent for him; and the ship sailed out into the blue sea, under the blue sky; and the shape of the island of Raishū itself turned blue, and then turned gray, and then vanished forever. . . . And Akinosuké suddenly awoke — under the cedar-tree in his own garden! . . .
For the moment he was stupefied and dazed. But he perceived his two friends still seated near him, — drinking and chatting merrily. He stared at them in a bewildered way, and cried aloud, —
"How strange!"
"Akinosuké must have been dreaming," one of them exclaimed, with a laugh, "What did you see, Akinosuké, that was strange?"
Then Akinosuké told his dream,— that dream of three-and-twenty years' sojourn in the realm of Tokoyo, in the island of Raishū; — and they were astonished, because he had really slept for no more than a few minutes.
One gōshi said: —
"Indeed, you saw strange things. We also saw something strange while you were napping. A little yellow butterfly was fluttering over your face for a moment or two; and we watched it. Then it alighted on the ground beside you, close to the tree; and almost as soon as it alighted there, a big, big ant came out of a hole, and seized it and pulled it down into the hole. Just before you woke up, we saw that very butterfly come out of the hole again, and flutter over your face as before. And then it suddenly disappeared: we do not know where it went."
"Perhaps it was Akinosuké's soul," the other gōshi said:— "certainly I thought I saw it fly into his mouth. . . . But, even if that butterfly was Akinosuké's soul, the fact would not explain his dream."
"The ants might explain it," returned the first speaker. "Ants are queer beings — possibly goblins. . . . Anyhow, there is a big ant's nest under that cedar-tree." . . .
"Let us look!" cried Akinosuké, greatly moved by this suggestion. And he went for a spade.
The ground about and beneath the cedar-tree proved to have been excavated, in a most surprising way, by a prodigious colony of ants. The ants had furthermore built inside their excavations; and their tiny constructions of straw, clay, and stems bore an odd resemblance to miniature towns. In the middle of a structure considerably larger than the rest there was a marvelous swarming of small ants around the body of one very big ant, which had yellowish wings and a long black head.
"Why, there is the King of my dream!" cried Akinosuké; "and there is the palace of Tokoyo! . . . How extraordinary! . . . Raishū ought to lie somewhere southwest of it — to the left of that big root. . . . Yes! — here it is! . . . How very strange! Now I am sure that I can find the mountain of Han-ryōkō, and the grave of the princess." . . .
In the wreck of the nest he searched and searched, and at last discovered a tiny mound, on the top of which was fixed a water-worn pebble, in shape resembling a Buddhist monument. Underneath it he found — embedded in clay — the dead body of a female ant.
Footnotes
1 This name "Tokoyo" is indefinite. According to circumstances it may signify any unknown country, — or that undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns, — or that Fairyland of far-eastern fable, the Realm of Hōrai. The term "Kokuō" means the ruler of a country, — therefore a king. The original phrase, Tokoyo no Kokuō, might be rendered here as "the Ruler of Hōrai," or " the King of Fairyland."
1 The last phrase, according to old custom, had to be uttered by both attendants at the same time. All these ceremonial observances can still be studied on the Japanese stage.
1 This was the name given to the estrade, or dais, upon which a feudal prince or ruler sat in state. The term literally signifies "great seat."
RIKI-BAKA
RIKI-BAKA
HIS name was Riki, signifying Strength; but the people called him Riki-the-Simple, or Riki-the-Fool, — "Riki-Baka," — because he had been born into perpetual childhood. For the same reason they were kind to him,— even when he set a house on fire by putting a lighted match to a mosquito-curtain, and clapped his hands for joy to see the blaze. At sixteen years he was a tall, strong lad; but in mind he remained always at the happy age of two, and therefore continued to play with very small children. The bigger children of the neighborhood, from four to seven years old, did not care to play with him, because he could not learn their songs and games. His favorite toy was a broomstick, which he used as a hobbyhorse; and for hours at a time he would ride on that broomstick, up and down the slope in front of my house, with amazing peals of laughter. But at last he became troublesome by reason of his noise; and I had to tell him that he must find another playground. He bowed submissively, and then went off, — sorrowfully trailing his broomstick behind him. Gentle at all times, and perfectly harmless if allowed no chance to play with fire, he seldom gave anybody cause for complaint. His relation to the life of our street was scarcely more than that of a dog or a chicken; and when he finally disappeared, I did not miss him. Months and months passed by before anything happened to remind me of Riki.
"What has become of Riki?" I then asked the old woodcutter who supplies our neighborhood with fuel. I remembered that Riki had often helped him to carry his bundles.
"Riki-Baka?" answered the old man. "Ah, Riki is dead — poor fellow! . . . Yes, he died nearly a year ago, very suddenly; the doctors said that he had some disease of the brain. And there is a strange story now about that poor Riki.
"When Riki died, his mother wrote his name, 'Riki-Baka,' in the palm of his left hand, —putting 'Riki' in the Chinese character, and 'Baka' in kana. And she repeated many prayers for him, — prayers that he might be reborn into some more happy condition.
"Now, about three months ago, in the honorable residence of Nanigashi-Sama, in Kōjimachi, a boy was born with characters on the palm of his left hand; and the characters were quite plain to read, — 'Riki-Baka'!
"So the people of that house knew that the birth must have happened in answer to somebody's prayer; and
they caused inquiry to be made everywhere. At last a vegetable-seller brought word to them that there used to be a simple lad, called Riki-Baka, living in the Ushigomé quarter, and that he had died during the last autumn; and they sent two men-servants to look for the mother of Riki.
"Those servants found the mother of Riki, and told her what had happened; and she was glad exceedingly — for that Nanigashi house is a very rich and famous house. But the servants said that the family of Nanigashi-Sama were very angry about the word 'Baka' on the child's hand. 'And where is your Riki buried?' the servants asked. 'He is buried in the cemetery of Zendōji,' she told them. 'Please to give us some of the clay of his grave,' they requested.
"So she went with them to the temple Zendōji, and showed them Riki's grave; and they took some of the grave-clay away with them, wrapped up in a furoshiki1 . . . They gave Riki's mother some money,—ten yen.". . .
"But what did they want with that clay?" I inquired.
"Well," the old man answered, "you know that it would not do to let the child grow up with that name on his hand. And there is no other means of removing characters that come in that way upon the body of a child: you must rub the skin with clay taken from the grave of the body of the former birth." . . .
Footnote
1 A square piece of cotton-goods, or other woven material, used as a wrapper in which to carry small packages.
HI-MAWARI
HI-MAWARI
ON the wooded hill behind the house Robert and I are looking for fairy-rings. Robert is eight years old, comely, and very wise; — I am a little more than seven, — and I reverence Robert. It is a glowing glorious August day; and the warm air is filled with sharp sweet scents of resin.
We do not find any fairy-rings; but we find a great many pine-cones in the high grass. ... I tell Robert the old Welsh story of the man who went to sleep, unawares, inside of a fairy-ring, and so disappeared for seven years, and would never eat or speak after his friends had delivered him from the enchantment.
"They eat nothing but the points of needles, you know," says Robert.
"Who?" I ask.
"Goblins," Robert answers.
This revelation leaves me dumb with astonishment and awe. . . . But Robert suddenly cries out:—
"There is a Harper! — he is coming to the house! "
And down the hill we run to hear the harper. . . . But what a harper! Not like the hoary minstrels of the picture-books. A swarthy, sturdy, unkempt vagabond, with black bold eyes under scowling black brows. More like a bricklayer than a bard, — and his garments are corduroy!
"Wonder if he is going to sing in Welsh?" murmurs Robert.
I feel too much disappointed to make any remarks. The harper poses his harp — a huge instrument — upon our doorstep, sets all the strings ringing with a sweep of his grimy fingers, clears his throat with a sort of angry growl, and begins, —
Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so fondly today . . .
The accent, the attitude, the voice, all fill me with repulsion unutterable, — shock me with a new sensation of formidable vulgarity. I want to cry out loud, "You have no right to sing that song!" For I have heard it sung by the lips of the dearest and fairest being in my little world; — and that this rude, coarse man should dare to sing it vexes me like a mockery, — angers me like an insolence. But only for a moment! . . . With the utterance of the syllables "today," that deep, grim voice suddenly breaks into a quivering tenderness indescribable; — then, marvelously changing, it mellows into tones sonorous and rich as the bass of a great organ, — while a sensation unlike anything ever felt before takes me by the throat. . . . What witchcraft has he learned? what secret has he found — this scowling man of the road? ... Oh! is there anybody else in the whole world who can sing like that? . . . And the form of the singer flickers and dims; — and the house, and the lawn, and all visible shapes of things tremble and swim before me. Yet instinctively I fear that man; — I almost hate him; and I feel myself flushing with anger and shame because of his power to move me thus. . . .
"He made you cry," Robert compassionately observes, to my further confusion, — as the harper strides away, richer by a gift of sixpence taken without thanks. ..."But I think he must be a gipsy. Gipsies are bad people — and they are wizards. . . . Let us go back to the wood."
We climb again to the pines, and there squat down upon the sun-flecked grass, and look over town and sea. But we do not play as before : the spell of the wizard is strong upon us both. . . . "Perhaps he is a goblin," I venture at last, "or a fairy?" "No," says Robert, — "only a gipsy. But that is nearly as bad. They steal children, you know." . . .
"What shall we do if he comes up here?" I gasp, in sudden terror at the lonesomeness of our situation.
"Oh, he wouldn't dare," answers Robert — " not by daylight, you know." . . .
[Only yesterday, near the village of Takata, I noticed a flower which the Japanese call by nearly the same name as we do: Himawari, "The Sunward-turning;"—and over the space of forty years there thrilled back to me the voice of that wandering harper, —
As the Sunflower turns on her god, when he sets,
The same look that she turned when he rose.
Again I saw the sun-flecked shadows on that far Welsh hill; and Robert for a moment again stood beside me, with his girl's face and his curls of gold. We were looking for fairy-rings. . . . But all that existed of the real Robert must long ago have suffered a sea-change into something rich and strange. . . . Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friend. . . . ]
HŌRAI
HŌRAI
BLUE vision of depth lost in height, — sea and sky interblending through luminous haze. The day is of spring, and the hour morning.
Only sky and sea, — one azure enormity. ... In the fore, ripples are catching a silvery light, and threads of foam are swirling. But a little further off no motion is visible, nor anything save color: dim warm blue of water widening away to melt into blue of air. Horizon there is none: only distance soaring into space, — infinite concavity hollowing before you, and hugely arching above you, — the color deepening with the height. But far in the midway-blue there hangs a faint, faint vision of palace towers, with high roofs horned and curved like moons, — some shadowing of splendor strange and old, illumined by a sunshine soft as memory.
. . . What I have thus been trying to describe is a kakemono, — that is to say, a Japanese painting on silk, suspended to the wall of my alcove; — and the name of it is SHINKIRŌ, which signifies "Mirage." But the shapes of the mirage are unmistakable. Those are the glimmering portals of Hōrai the blest; and those are the moony roofs of the Palace of the Dragon-King; — and the fashion of them (though limned by a Japanese brush of today) is the fashion of things Chinese, twenty-one hundred years ago. . . .
Thus much is told of the place in the Chinese books of that time:—
In Hōrai there is neither death nor pain; and there is no winter. The flowers in that place never fade, and the fruits never fail; and if a man taste of those fruits even but once, he can never again feel thirst or hunger. In Hōrai grow the enchanted plants So-rin-shi, and Riku-gō-aoi, and Ban-kon-tō, which heal all manner of sickness; — and there grows also the magical grass Yō-shin-shi, that quickens the dead; and the magical grass is watered by a fairy water of which a single drink confers perpetual youth. The people of Hōrai eat their rice out of very, very small bowls; but the rice never diminishes within those bowls, — however much of it be eaten, — until the eater desires no more. And the people of Hōrai drink their wine out of very, very small cups; but no man can empty one of those cups,— however stoutly he may drink, — until there comes upon him the pleasant drowsiness of intoxication.
All this and more is told in the legends of the time of the Shin dynasty. But that the people who wrote down those legends ever saw hōrai, even in a mirage, is not believable. For really there are no enchanted fruits which leave the eate
r forever satisfied, — nor any magical grass which revives the dead, — nor any fountain of fairy water, — nor any bowls which never lack rice, — nor any cups which never lack wine. It is not true that sorrow and death never enter Hōrai; — neither is it true that there is not any winter. The winter in Hōrai is cold; — and winds then bite to the bone; and the heaping of snow is monstrous on the roofs of the Dragon-King.
Nevertheless there are wonderful things in Hōrai; and the most wonderful of all has not been mentioned by any Chinese writer. I mean the atmosphere of Hōrai. It is an atmosphere peculiar to the place; and, because of it, the sunshine in Hōrai is whiter than any other sunshine, — a milky light that never dazzles,— astonishingly clear, but very soft. This atmosphere is not of our human period: it is enormously old, —so old that I feel afraid when I try to think how old it is; — and it is not a mixture of nitrogen and oxygen. It is not made of air at all, but of ghost, — the substance of quintillions of quintillions of generations of souls blended into one immense translucency, — souls of people who thought in ways never resembling our ways. Whatever mortal man inhales that atmosphere, he takes into his blood the thrilling of these spirits; and they change the senses within him, — reshaping his notions of Space and Time, — so that he can see only as they used to see, and feel only as they used to feel, and think only as they used to think. Soft as sleep are these changes of sense; and Hōrai, discerned across them, might thus be described:—
— Because in Hōrai there is no knowledge of great evil, the hearts of the people never grow old. And, by reason of being always young in heart, the people of Hōrai smile from birth until death —except when the Gods send sorrow among them; and faces then are veiled until the sorrow goes away. All folk in Hōrai love and trust each other, as if all were members of a single household; — and the speech of the women is like birdsong, because the hearts of them are light as the souls of birds; — and the swaying of the sleeves of the maidens at play seems a flutter of wide, soft wings. In Hōrai nothing is hidden but grief, because there is no reason for shame; — and nothing is locked away, because there could not be any theft; — and by night as well as by day all doors remain unbarred, because there is no reason for fear. And because the people are fairies — though mortal — all things in Hōrai, except the Palace of the Dragon-King, are small and quaint and queer; —and these fairy folk do really eat their rice out of very small bowls, and drink their wine out of very, very small cups. . . .
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