That night he left by the northern door, hid himself among the great trees of the southern mountain, and in time died there.
After that, his wife bore a son. When he was fifteen years of age, the space between his eyes measured one foot—hence he was called Broad-of-Brow. His mother repeated to him all the sayings that the father had left behind, and the son followed the instructions of the mother. She gave him the sword, for she had come to believe that he was destined to carry out vengeance for his father’s death.
At the time, the king had a dream in which someone who measured a foot between his eyes was plotting to revolt and kill him. When the king awoke, he was full of fear and alarm and immediately dispatched an order to all four quarters, saying, “There is in the world someone who measures a foot from eye to eye. Seize him and bring him to me! To anyone who brings me his head, I will give a thousand gold pieces as a reward!”
At that time, when Broad-of-Brow came to hear of this, he fled into hiding deep in the mountains. The messengers bearing the king’s proclamation searched everywhere in the four directions, and one of them happened to come upon Broad-of-Brow in the mountains. When he looked, he could see that he measured a foot from eye to eye. Filled with delight, he said, “Are you the man called Broad-of-Brow?” “I am,” replied Broad-of-Brow. “I and the others bear a royal proclamation,” he said. “We are searching for your head and for the sword that you bear.”
Hearing this, Broad-of-Brow took the sword and, cutting off his own head, presented it to the envoy. The envoy took the head and, returning, handed it to the king. The king was delighted and rewarded the envoy.
After this, Broad-of-Brow’s head having been delivered by the envoy, the king declared, “We must quickly demolish it by boiling it!” But when the envoy, following the king’s instructions, put the head in a cauldron of boiling water, it sat there for seven days without showing any signs of disintegrating.
The king, thinking this very strange and attempting to discover the reason, went and peered into the cauldron, whereupon the king’s head fell off of its own volition and dropped into the water. The two heads seemed to be fighting with each other, with no end to the struggle. The envoy, thinking this highly peculiar, in an attempt to weaken the struggles of Broad-of Brow’s head, tried sticking the sword into the cauldron. When he did this, both the heads began to fester. But while the envoy was peering into the cauldron, his own head fell off and dropped into the water. Thus there were three heads in the water, all run together so that it was impossible to distinguish them. As a result, all three heads were buried in a single grave.
That grave is said to be still in existence, located, I am told, in the district of Yishun.
How Wang Zhaojun, Consort of Emperor Yuan of the Han, Went to the Land of the Hu (10:5)
Long ago, in the reign of Emperor Yuan [r. 48–33 B.C.E.] of the Han dynasty in China, the emperor commanded that, from among the daughters of the high ministers and nobles, those of outstanding beauty of face and form be selected, and that all of them be brought to the imperial palace. The women numbered some four or five hundred, so many that, as it turned out later, the emperor could not necessarily get to know each one individually.
At that time, some men from the land of the Hu had appeared in the capital, persons of a barbarian nature.10 The emperor himself, along with the high ministers and the various other government officials, pondered what to do about this troubling situation but could come up with no good plan.
Then one wise man among the high ministers came forward with this suggestion. “The fact that these men of Hu have come here is highly injurious to the interests of our country,” he said. “To ensure that they return to their own country, I would suggest that, since there are so many more women in the palace than are needed, one woman of inferior looks be selected from among these and handed over to the Hu country people. If so, they will surely be pleased and will go back home. I believe there can be no better plan than this.”
When the emperor heard this suggestion, he said, “Very well!” But when it came to inspecting the women in person and selecting one, he realized that, there being so many of them, it would be quite troublesome. Instead, he decided to summon a number of painters and have them examine the women and paint portraits of them. Then he could look over the portraits and pick one woman of inferior features to give to the Hu people.
And so the painters began their portraits. The women, filled with alarm and sorrow at the thought that one of them was to become the plaything of a barbarian and journey to a distant and unknown land, vied with one another to offer the painters gifts of gold and silver or other goods of value. The painters, beguiled by such gifts, accordingly painted even the ungainly ones in an attractive manner, and the portraits were then presented to the emperor.
There was one among the women named Wang Zhaojun, who as a matter of fact outshone all the others in beauty of form. But she relied on her beauty and did not offer the painter anything in the way of a bribe. As a result, he did not paint her features as they actually were, but portrayed her as extremely unattractive. And when her portrait was presented, the decision was made: “We’ll send this one!”
The emperor, wondering about this decision, summoned Wang Zhaojun to appear before him. Her beauty shone like a beam of light; she was a veritable jewel beside the other women, who were so much mud. The emperor, astounded, grieved to think of handing her over to the barbarians. But as the days went by, the barbarians heard reports that Wang Zhaojun was to be given to them, and they appeared at the palace to make inquiries. It was impossible to reverse the decision, and so in the end Wang Zhaojun was handed over to the Hu people. Mounting a horse, she set off on her journey to the land of the Hu.
Wang Zhaojun wept in sorrow, but she knew there was nothing that could be done. The emperor too, deeply saddened, thought of her with longing. So deep were his thoughts that he visited the places where she had once been. In spring, the branches of the willows swayed in the breeze, the warblers singing in vain in them. With autumn, the fallen leaves of the trees piled up in the courtyard, where the ferns that cling to the eaves wakened endless sad memories. No words could describe the scene, and it only deepened his grief and longing.
The men of Hu, having acquired Wang Zhaojun, were delighted and, playing various tunes on their lutes, set off on the journey. As she listened to them, Wang Zhaojun, amid her tears and lamentations, felt a little bit comforted. Once they arrived in Hu, she became the consort of the ruler and was treated with the highest honor. But in her heart, this could hardly make up for what had happened. All this came about because she relied on her good looks and failed to bribe the painter. And the people of the time, we are told, blamed her for that.
BUDDHIST TALES OF JAPAN
Books 11 through 21, which outline the history of Buddhism in Japan, beginning with the transmission of Buddhism from China, include stories about Prince Shōtoku (574–622). Books 13 and 14 describe miracles associated with the Lotus Sutra or the reading of the Lotus Sutra. For example, “How a Monk of Dōjō-ji in Kii Province Copied the Lotus Sutra and Brought Salvation to the Snakes” (14:3)11 claims to prove the efficacy and power of the Lotus Sutra. In typical Mahayana fashion, the story stresses the need for such intermediaries and the fact that even the most evil can be saved by Buddhism. But the actual interest of the story, which had a profound influence on Japanese literature and drama and appears in many variants, extends far beyond this didactic ending to explore the large issues of gender and amorous attachment.
The stories of miracles related to Kannon (Avalokiteśvara), the bodhisattva of mercy, described in book 16 are followed, in book 17, by stories of miracles associated with various deities and bodhisattvas, particularly Jizō. A compelling example is “How Kaya no Yoshifuji of Bitchū Province Became the Husband of a Fox and Was Saved by Kannon” (16:17), a setsuwa that reveals the power of Kannon and takes up the theme of attachment, which is blinding and deceiving. In this tale, as elsewhere, th
e Buddhist message evinces profound skepticism about external appearances and warns us not to be deluded.
Book 19 includes tales of spiritual awakenings and other Buddhist-related stories. A noted example is “How Ōe no Sadamoto, Governor of Mikawa, Became a Buddhist Monk” (19:2). This tale, which also appears in A Collection of Tales from Uji (Uji shūi monogatari, 52 and 172), actually consists of two conversion stories. In the first, the attachment to his beloved causes a man to sleep with her dead body until the putrefaction awakens him. In the second, the pheasants that are butchered while alive awaken the protagonist. The setsuwa ends with a tale of good works, in which a dirty beggar turns out to be the bodhisattva Monju (Mañjuśri), whose identity is revealed by the purple cloud. The last part describes the virtuous acts of Jakushō, who created a bath for commoners.
Book 20 contains tales about tengu (literally, “heavenly dog”), the long-nosed, red-faced goblins with mysterious powers; stories about the revival of the dead; and setsuwa about karmic rebirth and retribution in this world. The tengu and other demonic figures prevent devotion to and understanding of the Buddhist ideals, such as the Three Treasures.12 A good example is “How a Palace Guard of the Takiguchi Unit Went to Collect Gold During the Reign of Emperor Yōzei” (20:10). In this story, which also appears in the Uji shūi monogatari (106), the protagonist is lured and victimized by heretical, magical cults and by deceptive, magical creatures such as a huge serpent and a gigantic wild boar.
How a Monk of Dōjō-ji in Kii Province Copied the Lotus Sutra and Brought Salvation to the Snakes (14:3)
Long ago, there were two monks who went on a pilgrimage to the Kumano shrines.13 One was an old man; the other was young, a strikingly handsome figure. When they reached the district of Muro, they asked at a private house for lodging for the two of them for the night. The owner of the house was a young single woman, with two or three women servants.
When the woman of the house saw how handsome the young monk lodger was, her heart was stirred by deep feelings of love and desire, and she treated him with special care.
When night came and the two monks had gone to bed, the woman of the house around midnight made her way to where the young monk was sleeping, removed her clothes, and, placing them over the two of them, lay down beside him. Then she woke him up.
The monk, waking and realizing the situation, was troubled and alarmed. “I ordinarily never give lodging to others,” the woman said. “I agreed to put you up tonight because, from the time I first caught sight of you today, I determined deep in my heart that I’d make you my husband. I gave you lodging so I could achieve that aim. That’s why I’ve come here. I have no husband; I’m single. Have pity on me!”
When the monk heard this, he was deeply disturbed and, sitting up in bed, said to her, “Because of a vow taken in the past, I have for some time kept myself pure in body and mind and have set out on this journey to pay my respects at the sacred shrines of the deities present here.14 If I were suddenly to violate my vow, it would have fearful consequences for us both! You must give up this idea at once!” He was adamant in his refusals.
The woman, deeply angered, continued all night to cling to the monk, attempting to force or entice him to her will. The monk tried various ways to calm and appease her. “It is not that I refuse your offer,” he said. “But I’m on my way now to Kumano. In two or three days, after I have made my offerings of lamps and paper strips,15 I will return this way again and comply with your proposal.” Such was the promise he made, and she, relying on this promise, returned to her own room. When dawn came, the two monks left the house and continued on their way to Kumano.
From then on, the woman, counting on the promised day, put all other concerns out of her mind and, longing only for the monk, busied herself with various preparations, waiting for his return. As for the two monks, when the time came to return, because of their fear of the woman, they did not pass by her house but hurried off in a quite different direction and thus escaped.
The woman, wondering why the monks were so long in coming and weary of waiting, went out into the road and questioned the people passing by. One of them was a monk returning from Kumano. She asked him if two monks, one young and one old, dressed in robes of such and such a color, had started on their way back. “Those two monks started back some time ago—it’s been two or three days by now,” he replied. When the woman heard this, she clapped her hands in alarm. “He’s taken some other road and escaped!” she thought to herself. Deeply incensed, she returned to her house and shut herself up in the bedroom. No sound was heard, but after a while it was found that she had died.
Her women attendants, seeing this, began weeping and lamenting, whereupon a poisonous snake five arm-spans in length suddenly emerged from the bedroom. It went out of the house and headed for the road, as though intending to follow the route taken by those returning from Kumano. When people saw this, they were terrified.
The two monks, meanwhile, were well along their way when they happened to hear someone say that in the region to the rear of them something strange had happened and that a huge snake five arm-spans in length had appeared and was racing over the fields and hills in their direction. Hearing this, the monks thought, “This must surely be that woman of the house who, because we broke our promise, has become possessed by evil designs, turned into a poisonous snake, and is coming to pursue us!” They fled as fast as they could, seeking refuge in a temple called Dōjō-ji.
The monks of the temple, seeing the two monks, asked what they were running away from. They explained what had happened and begged for help. The temple monks gathered together to discuss what to do. They decided to lower the large bell that was hanging in the bell tower, instructing the young monk to hide inside the bell, after which they shut the temple gate. The old monk, along with the temple monks, hid elsewhere.
After a while, a huge snake arrived at the temple gate. Although the gate was closed, the snake climbed over it. Then it circled several times around the bell tower. Arriving at the door to the bell tower, which held the bell in which the young monk was hiding, it knocked at the door with its tail some hundred times until it finally smashed it down. The snake then entered the bell tower, wound itself around the bell, and with its tail pounded on the dragon’s head knob from which the bell was suspended, continuing to do so for five or six hours.
Terrified though they were, the monks of the temple, wondering what was happening, opened the doors of the surrounding buildings and gathered around to look. They saw tears of blood streaming from the eyes of the poisonous snake. It lifted up its head, licked with its tongue, and then climbed down and hurried away in the direction from which it had come.
Gathering around, the temple monks saw that the huge bell, seared in the hot poisonous breath of the snake, was wreathed in flames. No one could even come near it. Eventually, however, they were able to pour water on it and cool the bell. When they raised it and looked for the monk who had been inside, they found that he had been consumed by the fire—not even a trace of his bones remained. All that was left of him was a little ash. The old monk who had accompanied him, seeing this, wept and lamented and then went on his way.
Some time later, a venerable old monk of Dōjō-ji had a dream. In it a huge snake, bigger than the one that had appeared earlier, confronted him and spoke to him in these words: “I am the monk who was hidden in the bell here. That evil woman turned into a poisonous snake, and in the end I was overpowered by the snake and forced to become her husband. I’ve been reborn in a vile and lowly form and undergo countless torments. I do not think I have sufficient strength to free myself from these ills, although when I was alive I abided by the teachings of the Lotus Sutra. But if I could beg you, holy man, to favor us with your vast kindness and virtue, I believe we could escape these sufferings. In particular I beg you, acting in a spirit of impartial pity and compassion, ritually pure as you are, to write out a copy of ‘The Life Span’ chapter of the Lotus Sutra.16 Present it as an offering to
us, the two snakes; free us from our torments. For without the power of the Lotus Sutra, how else can we escape?” With these words, the snake departed. Then the monk woke from his dream.
Thereafter, the old monk, thinking it over, was all at once moved by a spirit of piety. He copied “The Life Span” chapter in his own hand and, sacrificing what few possessions he had, called the other monks together and held a one-day religious gathering to make offerings to the two snakes and free them from their trials.
Later the old monk dreamed that a monk and a woman appeared to him. Both, wreathed in smiles and with a look of joy on their faces, arrived at Dōjō-ji and bowed to him in obeisance. “Because in a state of purity you have cultivated roots of goodness,” they said, “we have both been able to quickly cast off our snake bodies and journey to a much finer realm. I, the woman, have been reborn in the Trayastrimsha Heaven, and I, the monk, have ascended to the Tushita Heaven.”17 When they had finished making this announcement, the two of them went their separate ways, climbing into the sky. Then the monk woke from his dream.
Thereafter, the old monk both rejoiced and sorrowed, and had ever greater esteem for the power and authority of the Lotus Sutra, boundless in his admiration. What had happened was in fact a striking demonstration of the spiritual potency of the Lotus Sutra, a thing to be wondered at. That these two beings could start anew, casting off their serpent bodies and being reborn in the heavens, was due solely to the power of the Lotus. All who observed or heard of this were inspired to revere and have faith in the Lotus Sutra, to copy and recite it. And what the old monk did—that, too, was admirable. To have acted so must mean that in some previous existence he was a good teacher of the doctrine. And if we think of it, the love that that evil woman felt for the monk—that, too, must have been caused by some bond from a previous existence.
The Demon at Agi Bridge and Other Japanese Tales (Translations from the Asian Classics) Page 6
