Lotus & Other Tales of Medieval Japan

by Takeshi Umehara

  How the Gods Came to Kumano

  Thank you all very much for visiting this humble shrine. And now I would like to tell you about the gods of Kumano, whose shrines you will be visiting. There are three principal deities here: the gods of Nachi, the Original Shrine, and the New Shrine. I'm going to tell you how these deities came to be here. The basic idea is that all of the gods of Japan were originally Indian buddhas and bodhisattvas who showed themselves in temporary forms here. I'm not really sure why the buddhas wanted to take the form of Japanese gods, but it seems they did; and the god of Nachi is a manifestation of the Eleven-headed Kannon; the god of the New Shrine, of Yakushi Buddha; and the god of the Original Shrine, of Amida Buddha.

  These three buddhas—Kannon, Yakushi, and Amida— were, it's said, originally human beings. The Chinese character for buddha is written "not-human"; but this doesn't mean that they were never human. Rather, they are transformed human beings. Now I'm sure you all think that only very virtuous people become buddhas, but that's not necessarily true. People who've lived eccentric lives and those with a heavy weight of karma can become buddhas too.

  Just when it was, I'm not sure, but there was a country in India called Magadha. The capital of the country was a great city. They say it took five days to go from the eastern to the western edges, and seven days to go from the northern to the southern edges of it. It was a huge place, even by comparison with our great capital of Heian-kyo. And since we are told that the roads running north and south were paved with gold, and those running east and west with silver, it must have been awfully rich too.

  Now in this land there were ten thousand ministers of state, fifty thousand noblemen, one hundred thousand courtiers, and one thousand royal consorts. The neighboring country of China did not have as many as ten thousand ministers, but it did have three thousand royal consorts. In the case of Magadha, the number of consorts seems a little small to me in comparison with the number of ministers. But even so, it must have been very hard to have one thousand wives at once. Even though the king was attended by these one thousand wives, for some reason no child was born. Still, he was so busy with governmental affairs, and love affairs, that he hardly noticed the loneliness that comes from being childless. Then one day, everything changed.

  A pair of little birds were feeding their young, the male and the female taking turns to get the food and put it into their babies' mouths. Watching them, the king said, "That pair of birds, husband and wife, look so happy! Through what chain of karma have they found this happiness, while I have not? I have a thousand wives, and if each of them bore just one child, I would have a thousand children. And yet I don't have a single one—what an unhappy man I am!"

  Neither the ministers of state nor the royal consorts had anything to say to this, but a priest who happened to be there replied as follows: "Your Majesty's seed is so noble that it cannot easily form a child within the body of a woman. Yet among your thousand consorts, I am sure there is one who can receive your seed fruitfully. Just as one in a thousand persons is like a buddha, so too, one of your wives will be able to accept your noble seed and bear you a splendid, princely son. Therefore I beg Your Majesty to make the rounds of your consorts even more assiduously than up to now and endeavor with the utmost care to father a child."

  This was a very wise suggestion on the part of the priest.

  He suspected that if the king did not have a child as yet, it was because he was overtaxing himself with his thousand wives. How clever it was of him to say that such noble seed does not easily bear fruit! And his advice to "make the rounds more assiduously" was also in his own interest, for even if the king visited one wife each day, it would take three years to visit them all. Thus, the priest's irresponsible lie would not be revealed for quite some time.

  The priest's words caused the king to reconsider his marital arrangements. Governance was of great importance to him, of course, but the part of his life centered on the women's quarters of the palace was just as important. Behind each of his thousand wives, there were ministers and noblemen who were fathers or elder brothers. If he neglected to show his affection to even one of his consorts, her resentment would breed anger in her male relatives, and this in turn would endanger the king's conduct of government. He needed to make love to all his wives with complete impartiality, and had devised a schedule including three hundred of them each year.

  But he had to treat with special care the daughters and younger sisters of the most powerful men. Them, he needed to make love to ten or twenty times a year. As a result, he began to neglect his three-hundred-per-year plan, and more and more cut corners. Now the priest's words had made the king reflect carefully on his work of the past few years. He decided from that day forward to make love to one wife a day, doing his best for each one without distinction.

  Among his wives was a lady called Senkuho, the daughter of a man named Kensaisho. (I don't know what characters you'd use to write these odd-sounding names, unlearned person that I am, but those are the names that have been handed down for centuries.) The lady was not exceptionally beautiful, but she had a charming plumpness and looked like the type who would be very much blessed with children. She was calm and gentle, and a pious believer in the Buddha's teachings.

  The king hardly noticed this quiet, not particularly beautiful lady among his thousand consorts, and his conjugal visit, which should have come 'round once every three and a half years, was completely omitted twice in a row. As a result, the lady's chamber remained empty for seven or eight years. She prayed constantly to the Eleven-headed Kannon that the king's love might be turned toward her. Perhaps that was why one night, following the priest's advice to make sure to visit each and every wife, the king came to the lady's quarters for a leisurely and passionate visit.

  For some reason the king was very taken with this lady and began to spend all his time with her. The other ladies were angry and resentful, and the ministers were shocked, since the king had never before acted so arbitrarily. The king, however, didn't seem to care about the other wives' anger or sorrow or his ministers' shock and suspicion—he continued to stay with her. He began saying things like, "I've met a buddha! I never realized there were buddhas like this hidden among ordinary people. What a fool I've been!" Such statements made the other wives even angrier, and the ministers tried to remonstrate with the king, but he wouldn't listen.

  Why did the king become so very fond of this particular wife? The meddlesome courtiers had several theories—for instance, that if a woman like that, of no particular beauty, had been able to win the king's heart, it must be because she had some hidden physical charm that turned him to jelly. And what a fuss they made about it! Why is it that men, in particular, are so fond of gossip of this sort? I myself, as a nun in service to the Buddha, know nothing of such things. "Oh, yes? You look quite well versed in the ways of love, Sister," some of you are thinking. Well, don't! I live to serve the Buddha. I'm still a pure maiden without experience of men.

  Anyway, the king continued to stay with Lady Senkuho and built her a splendid palace. It was called the Gosuiten Palace, and she became known in turn as Lady Gosuiten. In time, Lady Gosuiten showed signs of being with child. The king was exceedingly pleased at this wonderful news, but the other nine hundred and ninety-nine wives were not very happy, as you might expect. Women, you see (and not just lowly ones like me, but even the highest of the high), cannot escape the sin of jealousy. The nine hundred and ninety-nine ladies gathered in one place and, consumed with jealousy and envy, talked about her: "Lady Gosuiten says she's carrying the king's child, but it must be a lie. It's the lot of women to bear children, but it's incredible that a base person like her could be with child when we nine hundred and ninety-nine others could not. No doubt she wanted the king's child so badly that she took herself off in secret to some stable-boy or sumo wrestler somewhere and got herself pregnant. Now she claims it's the king's seed! If he failed to get any one of us nine hundred and ninety-nine ladies with child, it's because
he has no seed. He's a seedless watermelon! Can a seedless watermelon bear fruit? The seed she's carrying isn't watermelon seed, it's—bumpkin seed!"

  They carried on like this, pouring out insults and abuse to make themselves feel better. Then one of them called Lady Renge had an idea: "It may be the child of a stableboy or a wrestler, but if it's born of a lady whom the king is consorting with, it will become the king's son. What's the point in spouting insults? It would be better to curse the child and make it die."

  The other ladies all agreed and summoned a priest famed for his great magical powers. "Don't let the child Lady Gosuiten is carrying be born in the world of men: turn it into a wild animal. Or, let it be flushed away with the waste water." For seven days and seven nights they had him cast his spells, but to no effect.

  Then the nine hundred and ninety-nine wives gathered together again to take counsel. The gods and buddhas, it appeared, would not listen to their pleas. But in the next country there lived a skillful soothsayer. They decided to send a messenger and summon him. When he arrived at the palace, the ladies told him, "Lady Gosuiten is said to be with child. We hear you can divine someone's past for forty years back and their future for forty years forward. Will this child be male or female, a human or a beast? And what will its destiny be? Tell us!"

  The soothsayer shook his divining rods for a while and then read them. With a bright smile he announced to the royal consorts: "This is indeed a good omen! The child her ladyship is carrying will be a boy, a prince. From the day of his birth, the people will be free from tribulations, and the land will be at peace. At the age of three, he will be made crown prince, and at seven he will ascend the throne as king. During his reign the land of Magadha will extend its sway beyond its borders and enjoy great prosperity."

  The nine hundred and ninety-nine ladies gave him angry looks. "You may be a famous soothsayer, but you know nothing about a woman's feelings! Couldn't you tell that we did not want an answer like that?"

  At this, the soothsayer assumed a more dignified posture and replied, "That is what the omens say. I have simply explained them to you as they are. It is said that if you tell something contrary to what the omens say, you will be cursed by the god of divination and fall into the hells—you and your descendants unto the seventh generation."

  "Fall into the hells unto the seventh generation? Don't be ridiculous! We know lots of soothsayers who tell lies, and they are alive and well, and so are their children. A really good soothsayer is the one who reads his client's mind and tells her what she wants to hear. Now, we'd like you to give the king a reading, and tell him precisely what we say. We'll make you rich if you do. We'll give you fine robes to wear. We'll even let you have our bodies for your pleasure. Wouldn't you like to have a taste of nine hundred and ninety-nine beautiful women, all still young and fresh? And if by any chance you should tell the king anything close to what you've said to us just now, we nine hundred and ninety-nine ladies will join together to curse you. We'll send you to the very worst, limitless hell—you and your descendants unto the seventh generation!" They laughed horribly.

  That's what the royal consorts told the poor soothsayer, and how terrifying their voices were! Now, the soothsayer had a wife who had, ten years earlier, found him out in just one infidelity. What an uproar! Perhaps his wife was twice as jealous as the average woman—anyway, she seemed to go quite mad. Even now he approached her with the utmost care. So he was well aware that even one woman could easily send a man to hell; and he had no doubt at all that if he were cursed by nine hundred and ninety-nine, it would mean limitless hell for seven generations. Naturally he replied, "I will do as your ladyships wish in all things. What precisely shall I tell his majesty?"

  There was a total change in the ladies' attitudes. "Oh, wonderful, wonderful! You are a fine soothsayer," they told him in gentle voices. "Tell the king this: the child the Lady Gosuiten is carrying will be a very wicked prince; and when he is three years of age, a great calamity will come upon our land and wipe out the ministers of state, the nobility, and most of the common people. Then when he is seven, the king himself will lose his life.... Tell the king that."

  A few days later, the nine hundred and ninety-nine ladies went to the king and said, "We're sure the child who is to be born will be a male, a prince; and we suggest your majesty consult a soothsayer about his future. In the neighboring land there is a famous diviner who can see forty years into the past and future alike. Why don't you ask him about the prince?"

  "All right," nodded the king. "I'll summon him and have him tell my son's fortune." And so the man was brought before the king and said precisely what the nine hundred and ninety-nine ladies had told him to say. The soothsayer feared (and the ladies dearly hoped) that the king would become enraged when he heard this prediction. But he simply said, "I see ... a bad king, eh? You say my son will be an exceptionally bad king? That'd be all right! You have to be pretty bad to handle a big country like this. A good man'd be made a fool of by the neighboring kings. After all, the great King Ajase who enlarged our domains in former times seems to have been a very bad king indeed—killing his father and imprisoning his mother. Now, I may look like a good king, but underneath I'm quite a bad one myself. The king of a great country should let people think him a good man but should on no account be one. So it's good if the prince becomes a 'bad' king. And you say I'd only have seven more years to live? That's all right with me, if I can experience a father's joy in having a son for a full seven years."

  Some days later, the nine hundred and ninety-nine royal consorts gathered again to have a talk: "Despite the king's brave words, he's unsettled in mind about the prince. One more little push from us should do the trick." They devised a plan: each of them would search the land of Magadha for the oldest, most fearsome-looking hag she could find. They would dress the old women in red, put drums and fifes and other noise-makers in their hands, and have them push their way into the Gosuiten Palace, where the king was staying.

  When the day came, the nine hundred and ninety-nine old women sounded their noise-makers and howled out, "The one thousand hags of heaven do now present themselves at the palace of Lady Gosuiten. The Lord of heaven has heard that her ladyship has conceived a future evil king, and he commands that the wicked child be killed in the womb, and its head brought to him. He also said we may take the lives of its mother, Lady Gosuiten, and its father, his majesty the king." They tittered and sniggered. "We'll escort you all to heaven before tomorrow dawns!" Their weird voices resounded in the darkness, making the hair of those who heard them stand on end.

  The king had given a bold response to the soothsayer's prediction a few days before, but in fact he felt uneasy. And now, seeing these one thousand hags appear in the palace in the middle of the night, it was not surprising that he would be shaken, and wonder if he should have taken the diviner's words more seriously. "Heavens! You must be possessed by an unlucky spirit," he said to Lady Gosuiten. "I just remembered, I have some business to attend to so I must return to my own palace." And so he did.

  The Lady, left to herself, reflected sadly that the king, on whom she totally depended, had seemed so frightened that he would almost certainly never come to her again.

  The nine hundred and ninety-nine wives met and boasted to one another about how well everything had gone, and what a wonderful plan it was. They knew, though, that eventually the Lady would discover it had all been their doing— the soothsayer, the old hags, everything. It would be necessary, then, to get her out of the way before she found out. And so they devised another terrifying stratagem. They would forge a royal proclamation and use it to have seven soldiers come and take Lady Gosuiten far off into the mountains, where they would kill her. The ladies bribed the ministers of state to issue the false proclamation directly to the soldiers in the king's name. Naturally, the soldiers thought it was a genuine royal command.

  Their instructions were to take Lady Gosuiten to the foot of Mount Chikoshakuō, a seven-day march to the south of
the capital, and there to cut off her head. They proceeded to the lady's palace and read out the proclamation in a very loud voice. The men and women attendants who were there hurriedly packed their things (and not only their things, but the Lady Gosuiten's as well) and began pushing and shoving each other aside to make their getaways. The Lady had heard that at times like this men's hearts were not to be relied upon; and now, watching her people and even the dogs and cats flee pell-mell from the palace, she keenly felt the meanness of the human heart.

  The soldiers too felt sad at this demonstration of men's selfishness, and were very sorry for the Lady, who was left all alone. But they had their job to do, and time pressed. Urging the Lady on, they left the palace and set out on the seven-day march to Mount Chikoshakuō. A seven-day journey on foot was very painful for the Lady, who had seldom ventured outside the palace. It was sad to see blisters forming on her jewel-like feet and then bleeding as the march went on. When at last they arrived at the foot of the mountain, the soldiers said, "Your ladyship, traveling with you, we have all come to have deep respect for your character. We would save you if we could, but since it is by order of the king himself there is nothing we can do. So please, your ladyship, have pity on us and allow us to take your head."

  "Of course," she replied with a gentle smile, "I am quite resigned to death. Only, I would like to be allowed to recite the sutras a bit before I die." Naturally the soldiers had no objection to this, so the Lady took from the folds of her dress a small image of Kannon, the bodhisattva of mercy, and placing it on a rock, began to pray: "O merciful Kannon, I have always trusted in you; now help me, I pray. I don't care about my own life, but I must somehow save the king's seed that lives within me. And so I ask you to spare my life until I can bear my child."