On the sixth night the father told the little boy the story of “How Heart Came into the World.”
A long time ago, in the beginning of things, Worldmaker made the world. Worldmaker made the earth and stars and water and creatures. Man and Woman were given intelligence but in those days they did not yet possess Heart.
One day Worldmaker called Sun, Moon, Darkness and Rain. “My children, I have almost finished making the world. Soon the time will come for me to leave. I am going to send Heart in my place. Before I leave you, my children, I would like to know what you plan to do when I have gone. You, my bright Sun, what will you do?”
Sun answered, “Worldmaker, I will become hotter and hotter, and shine upon the Earth with all of my strength!”
Worldmaker spoke to Sun and said, “No, my child. That is not a good idea. You would burn the world with your heat and dazzle it blind with your brightness. No, Sun, here is what you must do. Take turns with Rain. After you warm the Earth, let Rain come and refresh it. That is the proper way to be. And you, Rain, what did you have in mind?”
“Oh, Worldmaker, I want to pour and pour and pour upon the Earth, and cover it with my waters!”
“No, my dear one. If you flood the Earth, all the creatures will be swept away and all that I have made will be destroyed. Instead, take your turn with Sun. You will cool and water the Earth in the proper season, and Sun will warm it again. How about you, Darkness, what are your plans?”
“I want to rule forever!” shouted Darkness.
“Child, this cannot be. If you ruled forever, the creatures of the Earth would not be able to look upon the loveliness I have made for them. No, Darkness, you will rule only when Moon is in its last quarter. Only then will you have your dominion. And as for you, Moon, my sweet, strange child, I will tell you what is to be. The night will be yours to shine in, sometimes full and round, sometimes thin and curved. Up and over you will go through the night sky, cutting tethered dreams free. So it will be forever, my children. But my time has come to leave you, and to leave this world that I have made. I will send Heart in my place.”
So saying, Worldmaker disappeared.
Not long afterwards Heart came into the world. Heart was small and red, about the size of my fist. Heart was crying. Heart came to the children of Worldmaker and said, “I am looking for the one who made me. Tell me where I can find the one who made the world.”
Sun, Moon, Darkness and Rain replied, “We do not know where Worldmaker has gone. We do not know where you must search.”
Heart said, “I long to meet the one who made me, but since Worldmaker has gone away, I will enter into Man and Woman; through them I will continue searching.”
So it is, that ever since that time long ago, every child born of Man and Woman has been born with a longing to meet the one who made the world. We call that longing “Heart.”
On the seventh night the father told the little boy the story of “The Master of the Tea Ceremony.”
Long ago in Japan there was a master of the tea ceremony. The teamaster practised his art in the palace of Lord Tosa.
One day Lord Tosa was invited to visit the Shogun in the city of Yeddo. He brought with him not only his warriors but also the master of the tea ceremony. He wanted the Shogun to enjoy the teamaster’s great art.
The custom of the Shogun was that every man who entered his palace should be dressed in the traditional costume of a samurai warrior. When the teamaster arrived with Lord Tosa’s entourage he too began to wear the two crossed swords of a samurai, although he had never worn a sword before in his life.
On many occasions in the next few days Lord Tosa asked his teamaster to perform the tea ceremony, and the teamaster became a favourite of the lords and ladies of the Shogun’s court. After a few days, the teamaster was given leave to spend a few hours out in the streets of the city. He was delighted to leave the palace and wander about, watching the hustle and bustle. Seeing the children play in the schoolyards reminded him of his own little boy and girl back home, and he smiled.
When it was time for him to return to the palace, the teamaster began to walk back the way he had come. He came to a bridge and began to cross it. Coming towards him on the bridge was a large, mean-looking man. This man was a ronin, a free-lance mercenary who roamed the countryside, sometimes serving an honest cause but more usually making trouble for law-abiding citizens. The ronin was in an ugly mood. As he passed the little teamaster he jostled him so that he fell to the ground. When the teamaster stood up and tried to walk away, the ronin stopped him and said, “How dare you push me and knock me around!”
“Pardon me,” said the teamaster politely, “but I believe it was you who knocked against me. I was the one who fell.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” the big man shouted. He hadn’t failed to notice that the teamaster was short and slight of build. “Come on, take out your sword and let’s settle this argument right here and now!”
“Ah, I’m afraid that I cannot oblige you with a fight,” said the teamaster. “Let me explain. You see, I’m not really a samurai. I practise the tea ceremony for Lord Tosa. I am wearing these garments and swords because my lord is visiting the Shogun, and I must dress like a warrior to enter the palace. I have never held a sword in my life.”
“So you say,” sneered the ronin, “and what I say is that you are nothing but a coward. If you refuse to give me satisfaction, if you refuse to fight, I will tell the whole town that your Lord Tosa is served by men who have no honour.”
The teamaster had no wish to bring dishonour to his lord. He stood before the ronin, his mind racing and his heart pounding. All of a sudden he had an idea. He remembered that on his meander through Yeddo he had passed an academy of swordfighting. He thought to himself, “I will return to that academy and learn at least how to hold the sword properly; then when he kills me I will not die in a shameful manner.”
He spoke to the ronin and said, “I will fight you. Before I do so, grant me two hours to complete a certain errand. I promise to meet you back here on the bridge and settle our dispute with swords.”
The mercenary thought that the little man must be going off to get some money so he could offer a bribe instead of a fight. He was happy to grant the delay. “See that you return in two hours,” he said, “or all of Yeddo will know of your disgrace.”
The teamaster hurried down the street to the door of the swordfighting academy. He explained breathlessly his urgent need to see the swordmaster, and the doorman brought him in. As quickly as he could, the teamaster described his dilemma, concluding, “… so you see I have come to learn from you how to hold a sword properly so that when I receive my deathblow, at least I will die with honour.”
“I understand,” said the swordmaster. Then he smiled.
“What’s so funny?” asked the teamaster. “I myself find nothing amusing in the situation.”
“Pardon my smile,” said the swordmaster. “Most of my students come to me to learn how to avoid death, and how to bring death to their enemies. You are the first man who has ever come to me to learn the art of dying.”
“Do not mock me!” cried the teamaster. “Please teach me what I need to know.”
“Before I teach you my art,” said the swordmaster, “would you be so kind as to show me yours?”
The teamaster knew that this would be his last chance to practise his art. With a great effort he began to prepare. He assembled the elements and utensils of the tea ceremony: the tea, the water, the whisk, the clay vessel, the brazier. Then he prepared himself. When all was ready, with a peaceful spirit he was able to serve the tea to the swordmaster.
The swordmaster observed the teamaster carefully and, after he had sipped from the bowl of tea, he said, “I see now that you are already a great master. I have nothing further to teach you. You already know everything necessary for your combat. Let me just make one suggestion. When you return to the bridge for the fight, approach your enemy as if he is a good friend. Go to him as if he
is your most honoured guest at the tea ceremony. When you arrive, be sure to greet him politely and thank him for waiting for you. Take off your jacket, roll it, and place it on the ground. Place your fan upon it. Roll up your sleeves. Tie the headband of resolution around your forehead. Face your opponent. Grasp your sword by the hilt, draw it, and hold it above your head. Announce your readiness for his attack. Then close your eyes. When you hear his battle cry, bring your sword down with all your strength. If you do exactly as I say, I assure you that all will be as you desire. Farewell, and have a good death.”
The teamaster was puzzled by the strange advice. But there was no more time for a lesson in sword-holding or swordfighting. He thanked the swordmaster and took his leave. He began to walk back to the bridge. As he walked, he tried to prepare himself not for a fight but for a tea ceremony. He felt calm, as if he were going to serve tea for a well-loved friend. He approached the scene of the combat. Step by step he let go of his hope, and step by step he let go of his fear.
By the time he reached the bridge he could see the ronin striding about, shouting and brandishing his sword. A crowd had gathered, eager to see blood. The teamaster walked slowly up to the ronin, greeted him, and thanked him for waiting. He placed his jacket and fan upon the ground, rolled up his sleeves, and tied the headband of resolution about his head. He took his sword, held it above his head, and said that he was ready to fight. The sword felt amazingly light in his hands. Then he closed his eyes.
He had no tea this time. He had no water, or whisk, or clay vessel, or fire, or brazier. The only thing left to offer was himself.
The teamaster stood there for a long time, but the ronin’s cry of attack never came. Finally the little man open his eyes. He saw an astonishing sight. The ronin’s sword lay on the ground in front of him. The mercenary soldier was backing away from him, his eyes full of terror and confusion. He broke into a run and dashed around the corner.
When the ronin had looked at the face of the teamaster, standing quietly in front of him, he lost his nerve. He did not know how to fight an enemy who showed neither hope nor fear. He did not know how to attack a man who stood peacefully, eyes closed, sword held without a quiver high above his head, waiting to serve, not tea, but his whole life. The ronin had been so scared that he’d thrown his own sword down and made his escape, glad he hadn’t been slaughtered by so powerful an enemy.
The teamaster picked up his things and returned to the Shogun’s palace. Before leaving Yeddo he visited his friend at the swordfighting academy. He served the swordmaster tea, told him the story, and the swordmaster smiled again.
On the eighth night the father told the little boy the story of “The Silent Prince.”
Once there was a king and a queen and they had a son. As he grew older, the little boy became strange and silent. By the time he was a teenager he had altogether quit talking. And so he became known as the Silent Prince.
The prince’s parents were desperate with worry. The queen never gave up hope that her son might become normal, but the king was sure his son was terribly damaged. When the prince was almost eighteen years old, the king and queen had an idea. They issued a proclamation that said: “Whoever can make the Silent Prince speak will win a great reward.” In fine print at the bottom of the proclamation were the words: “Whoever tries and fails will have his or her head chopped off.”
Despite the dire consequences, many brave men came and tried to win the great reward, and many brave men had their brave heads chopped off. Whatever they said to him, whatever they tried, they always failed; the prince could not or would not speak.
Down the road from the palace lived a young woman with her grandmother. One day the girl said to her grandmother, “Granny, I would like to try to make the Silent Prince speak.”
“That is not the cleverest thing you have ever said, Granddaughter. Do you not know the punishment for failure?”
“Yes, Granny, I do. But you are a wise old woman. You’ve spent time in the forest, you know the powers of herbs and flowers, you’ve read many books, you know many poems by heart. Please teach me what you know, Granny, and perhaps I’ll have a chance.”
And so the grandmother said to her granddaughter, “Very well. I will teach you my wisdom on one condition. You must listen to me all night and not interrupt once.”
The girl agreed and the grandmother began to speak. It wasn’t easy, listening for such a long time, but the girl did. In the morning, her grandmother finished speaking. “I have taught you my wisdom,” she said, “and the rest is up to you. Good luck, my beloved.”
She kissed the girl, and the girl set off towards the palace. When she arrived, she told the guard she wanted to go in. He led her before the king and the queen, and she told them that she’d come to make the Silent Prince speak.
“Here are the rules,” said the queen. “You will spend the night with our son in his bedroom—with a witness. In the morning the witness will tell us what he saw.”
The girl went into the prince’s bedroom and sat down. She didn’t say anything at first, and this surprised the prince very much. All of the men who had come to make him speak had done all of the talking. The girl just sat there. The prince looked at her. He thought she was very beautiful. Finally, the girl began to speak, but not to the prince. She turned to the witness and said, “Tomorrow I am going to die. Could you tell me a story to give me courage to face my death?”
“I’m sorry,” said the witness, “but I don’t know any stories. I’m just a witness.”
“Would you at least listen to my story if I told it to you?” she asked.
“Yes, I’ll listen,” said the witness.
The girl began:
There were three women once and each had a special power. They were about eighteen years old. One of them had a telescope, and when she looked through it she could see anything that was happening anywhere in the world. The second woman had a magic airplane, and she could travel instantly to anywhere in the world. The third woman had lived for many years in the forest and knew about herbs and healing plants. She’d found an apple tree that grew special apples: one bite could cure any sickness. The three women were good friends, and one day they met and began to show each other their gifts and powers. The first one looked through her telescope and said, “My friends, I see a palace on the other side of the world, and in it a young man is dying.” The second one said, “Get on board my airplane and we’ll go there right now.” All three travelled instantly to that palace. The third woman, the herbswoman, went to the young man’s bed and offered him a bite from her magic apple. The young prince was instantly cured. He leapt from his sickbed and saw three beautiful young women in his bedroom. He thought to himself, “I’m healthy now, and I’m single. I’d like to ask one of them to marry me.”
And here the girl stopped her story and said to the witness, “I have a question for you. Each one of the women did something to make the sick prince well. Which one did the most? Which one should he ask to marry him?”
The witness answered, “I don’t know. I’m not very good at riddles.”
But the prince had been listening very carefully and he opened his mouth and said, “I have an idea.”
“I’m very pleased to hear you say that,” said the girl. “What is your idea?”
“I think he should ask the young woman with the apple. The one who used her airplane lost nothing by using it; the one who used her telescope lost nothing by using it. But the woman who gave up a bite of her apple will never get that bite back again. She is the only one who gave up something for the sake of the sick prince.”
“A wise answer, O prince,” said the girl. “May you also one day find someone who is willing to give something up for you.”
In the morning the king and queen came in and asked the witness what had happened during the night. He was very pleased to be able to tell them that the Silent Prince had finally broken his silence. The queen was over the moon with joy. “Thank God,” she cried, “I knew h
e could speak!”
But the king didn’t believe it. “Why,” he said, “should my son start speaking now, just because a beautiful young woman spent the night in his room? I insist on a second night with two witnesses!”
So that night the girl was in the room with the prince and two witnesses. Again she sat for a long time and did not say a word. Finally she turned to the two witnesses and said, “My friends, tomorrow I will die. Will you tell me a story to give me courage to face my death?”
“We’re not storytellers,” they said, “we’re just witnesses.”
“Would you at least listen to my story if I told it to you?” she asked.
They agreed to listen and the girl began:
There was a young girl who lived in a village, and she was a witch. She was very much in love with a young man, but she never told him she was a witch. She was afraid he would leave her if he found out the truth. One night the young man was walking alone in the woods, and up ahead he saw a witch. He picked up a large stone and threw it at her. She turned to escape, but the stone caught her on the back of the leg. The next day when the boy went to visit his girlfriend he noticed she was limping. When she turned around he saw that there was a wound on the back of her leg, in the same place he’d thrown his stone. He said, “So it’s you… you’re the witch!” And she admitted everything: “Yes, I am the witch.”
The girl stopped her story and said to the two witnesses, “I have a question for you. Now that the boyfriend knows the truth about his lover, what should he do?”
“We don’t know,” they said, “we’re not very good at riddles.”
The prince had been listening very closely to the story, and he opened his mouth and said, “I have an idea.”
“I am very pleased to hear you say that,” the girl replied. “What is your idea?”
Suddenly They Heard Footsteps Page 24
