When she had finished praying, she spoke to the soldiers: "I have prayed earnestly to the Buddha and I'm sure he will take me to his Pure Land. Please behead me quickly and let me go to Paradise." Then, sitting in formal posture, she bent her head and exposed her neck to the executioners. They hesitated to take her life, but there was nothing they could do. The soldier who was to do the beheading came up behind her, raised his sword high, and, with a cry, brought it down hard. Now it was a very sharp sword, the lightest stroke of which should have sent any head flying; but for some reason, when he brought it down on Lady Gosuiten's neck, it sprang back, as if it had struck stone, and the blade shattered into pieces. The soldiers were stunned, and one after another they tried their own swords on the Lady's neck. But it seemed to have turned to the hardest of stone, and the swords kept breaking and the blades shattering.
The soldiers looked at each other in amazement and began to discuss something in low voices, but the Lady said, "It's Kannon saving me, I'm sure of it. He's made my neck as hard as stone until the day I give birth to my child. Won't you please wait until then to kill me?" The soldiers had little choice but to do as she asked.
After a time, the Lady gave birth to a jewel-like prince. The soldiers supposed that her neck should now have returned from its stone-like hardness before the birth to normal soft flesh. They urged the Lady to prepare herself and were about to cut off her head when she asked once again if she could say a final prayer to Kannon. "O holy Kannon, I beg that, even though my head be separated from my body, my breasts might remain uncorrupted and continue to give good milk for three years, to provide food for my son. And I ask that you have the tigers and wolves and foxes and serpents on this mountain protect my son, and have no thoughts of harming him."
When she finished this prayer, the Lady extended her soft white neck. "Now then, please behead me," she said. One of the soldiers brought his sword down, crying "Namu Amida Butsu!" The Lady's head fell from her shoulders and rolled about on the ground as the new-born prince lying nearby cried and screamed.
The soldiers, taking advantage of the fact that the proclamation said nothing about killing the child, left him as he was, simply putting the Lady's head in a sack and taking it back with them. "The child will die soon enough. May the tigers and wolves and foxes and serpents on this mountain guard his life for a while!" they said as they left.
And so the little prince was left by himself beside the headless body of his mother. Naturally he sought his mother's milk; and, strange to tell, the mother's full breasts continued to drip sweet-tasting milk into his mouth, just as if she were still alive. This continued for ten days, then twenty; then one, two, and three months. The head was gone, and the flesh of the body from the waist down gradually fell away until, after three months, only white bones were left. The torso alone remained as it had been, the ample breasts like a never-failing spring constantly dripping fresh, sweet milk into the prince's mouth. This was how the child was able to survive for ten days, then twenty; one month, then three.
And this was not all. The tigers and wolves, foxes and serpents, far from harming the prince, brought leaves and grasses and laid them over him to shield him from the cold. The tigresses and she-wolves sometimes cuddled him and gently licked his body as they would their own young. And so the little prince survived for three full years.
Lady Gosuiten had before her death begged Kannon to work this miracle for her son for a period of three years. If he had mother's milk for that long, she was sure he could grow up strong and healthy; and she was determined on that. But now those three years were almost up. The mountain beasts were wondering when to tell the prince; they knew he would be downcast at the news, and hesitated to give it to him. At last only three days were left. The animals asked a certain fox who was good friends with the prince and was working hard at teaching him human speech to break the news. The fox didn't much like this task, but someone had to do it, so he said to the child (who looked very contented after having drunk his fill of mother's milk): "It's about time you stopped taking that milk. We foxes only drink it for three months, and even humans stop after a year or so. But you're still guzzling away after three years! You'd better stop. You're the only human child in the forest. Do you know who your parents were? Actually, you know—now don't fall over— you're the son of the king of Magadha! And your mother was called Lady Gosuiten— she was one of the king's thousand wives. The king showed her special favor, and that's how she came to carry you inside her. But the nine hundred and ninety-nine other wives were very jealous of her: they tricked her into letting herself be taken to the foot of this mountain, where she was killed.
"We animals on the mountain remember exactly what happened three years ago. The Lady prayed to Kannon before she died, 'At least let my breasts remain alive so my child can have milk.' She also asked us animals to look after you—I can still hear the sadness in her voice when she spoke. And that's why the animals of the forest were so kind to you; even the fierce tigers and wolves loved you like one of their own cubs. It was because they were moved by the sad, gentle heart of your mother. But remember, Prince, that the three years are up in just three days!"
Though the prince had realized that he himself was a human being living in the midst of the animals, he had never worried about who his father or mother might be. The animals tried to avoid touching on the matter; it seemed to be something the prince should not ask about. It was as if there were some deep dark secret hidden away somewhere. He was afraid to ask, and never did.
Now, however, he had unexpectedly learned from the fox the secret of his birth. It was a great shock to him, but even greater was the sorrow he felt at soon having to part from his mother's breasts. He began to wail in a loud voice. His grief was so intense that the fox regretted having said anything, and tried to console him: "It's that painful for you to be separated from your mother's breasts, is it? Well, it's no wonder, since you've thought of them as your real mother all this time. But nothing that lives can escape the fate of dying. Men, tigers, wolves, foxes, serpents—they all die. That lovely flower over there will wilt, and that tree will wither. It's the destiny of all living things. Shakyamuni Buddha called it 'the truth that all things are impermanent.' We animals know all about the truth of impermanence even without hearing the Buddha preach. All that has life must die, and everything with form will be broken. Your mother's life-breath is long gone, but her attachment to you survives, in the form of those breasts. In another three days, though, even the breasts will wither. It is the way of this world."
Despite these wise words, the prince continued to cry. He cried for three days and three nights, without eating or drinking anything.
When the appointed day came, the animals gathered before the breasts of Lady Gosuiten, making offerings of food and water, and praying to them as if to the gods and buddhas themselves. At just around noon, the very time the Lady's head had been struck from her shoulders, there came the sound of lovely music, like a funerary song. The animals stood startled for a while, listening intently to the sounds, and then the breasts began slowly to vanish like light snow melting in the warm spring sunshine. The animals watched it happen, holding their breath as the white, white breasts grew gradually smaller and then completely disappeared. Unlike the snow in spring, there was not a single drop of moisture left behind; all that remained were some white bones.
There were some among the animals who simply could not believe the marvel they had seen. "We thought there was a pair of breasts there, but probably it was just a delusion," they said. And indeed it may have been, because it's impossible that Lady Gosuiten should have died and her breasts survived. On the other hand, those breasts did certainly give milk to the little prince for three whole years, thus keeping him alive. So how could it be a delusion? The animals discussed the matter from several points of view.
The prince had watched as if in a dream his mother's breasts melt away like snow. He had already wept all his tears the other day, and the actual p
arting was not quite as painful as had been the experience of being told, three days before, that he must bid the breasts farewell forever.
The animals gathered Lady Gosuiten's bones in one spot and had a simple funeral. Then they began to discuss what to do with the prince. The wolf spoke first: "True, the prince is a human child, but he was born on this mountain. For the past three years he has been nourished at his mother's breasts, but we animals actually raised him. He's attached to us, and we love him like our own child or brother. He may be a human by nature, but we animals are the ones who nurtured him. He ought to stay here and live with us— that will make him happy, and us too."
Most of the animals gave loud shouts of joy to express their agreement with the wolf's speech. The tiger, however, had a different opinion: "The wolf's view has something to be said for it. The prince is a good friend for us here in the forest, and he would become an even better friend as he grew up here. He'll turn into a strong young man, from whom much can be expected. It would naturally be good and pleasant for us to have such a strong, reliable friend. But the question is, would it be a good thing for the prince? He is, after all, a human child, and we should return him to his fellow humans. I think that would be best for him. I hear that the king has not been blessed with any more children and is very troubled at having no one to succeed him. He'll be overjoyed to learn that the prince is alive and well. I'm sure he'll want to leave his throne to his son. And what greater happiness could there be for a human being than to become a king? We'll miss him, of course, but we ought to return him to the world of men, and to his father the king."
As he spoke, large teardrops fell in a torrent from the tiger's big, fierce-looking eyes. Seeing his tears, the other animals all found themselves agreeing with the tiger's view and felt they must indeed return the prince to the human world and to the king, his father. They argued for a while about just how to do it, until they remembered the excellent Buddhist monk named Chiken whose temple stood at the foot of the mountain. Chiken was supposed to be on very good terms with the king, so he would be the best person of all to entrust with the prince. They decided to send the fox as messenger and have him escort the monk halfway up the mountainside, where they would hand over the prince.
One afternoon a few days later, as Chiken was reading in his room at the temple, a fox slipped in and started beckoning him. The monk's first thought was to drive the troublesome creature away, but no matter what he did, the fox showed no signs of leaving. It seemed to be trying to tell him to come along because it had something to show him. Finally Chiken decided to follow the fox, taking along three attendant monks. Coming to a spot in mid-mountain where there was a splendid view, he saw on the opposite slope a large crowd of animals, with a tiger in the lead. Recognizing the monk, the tiger addressed him in a loud voice: "You are the holy monk Chiken, are you not? The child you see here is in fact the son of the king of Magadha; his mother was a royal consort named Lady Gosuiten. She enjoyed the king's favor and conceived this prince, and for that reason was envied by the other nine hundred and ninety-nine wives, who had her brought to this mountain and beheaded. The prince's life was in great danger too, but we animals felt sorry for him and raised him here in the mountains for three years. But a human child should, after all, live among humans; so, holding back our tears, we wish to return him to the human world and to the king."
Chiken could tell that the tiger was struggling to keep from crying, and wondered at the strange things that occur in this world. "Fine, fine," he said. "It was good of you to care for the child. I thank you sincerely on behalf of the king. And I promise that well make a splendid prince of the boy!"
No sooner had he finished speaking than a wolf took the boy on his back and sped like an arrow down the valley, right to where the monk stood waiting. Chiken took the boy back to his temple, saying nothing about the matter to anyone else. He knew it was too early to introduce the child to the king: it would be best to teach him proper human manners and supply him with a little learning first. And so the monk applied himself to the task of teaching the prince the manners needed in human society—no easy job in the case of a boy who'd been raised among wolves and tigers. But the monk's efforts paid off, and the prince was soon a decently mannered little boy. He was also very apt at studies, and by the age of five or six could read quite difficult books. Chiken tried to teach the prince both "internal studies," that is, Buddhism, and "external studies," or nonBuddhist learning; but the prince was interested only in the former sort. The Buddhist teaching that "All who live must die, and all who meet are fated to part" seemed to appeal to him especially. "That's the way the world really is," he would say.
Four years passed in this way until the prince reached the age of seven. He had turned into a handsome lad who looked just like his father the king. Observing how much promise he showed, Chiken was immensely pleased. "I've raised you for four years now," he told him one day. "There was more than a touch of the woods about you at first; but you've managed to learn how human beings are supposed to behave, and you've made wonderful progress in your studies for a boy of your age. I think it's time we showed you to the king—how about it?"
Naturally the prince had no objection to this, and so one day the eminent monk took the little prince to the palace. The king glanced at the boy and said to Chiken, "It's been a long time, reverend sir! Even when I invite you, you rarely come; but today some good wind has blown you our way, it seems. I am very pleased. With your spiritual powers, you can bring peace and security to our throne." Then, looking again at the child: "And what a charming little page you've brought along with you today. I wish I had a boy like that...." Then he asked the lad directly, "Who is your father, my boy? And where is your mother?"
The prince was flustered at these sudden questions and didn't know how to reply; but the king continued good-naturedly, "I'm just asking you who your father is, and where your mother might be. Can't you hear me, my lovely little lad?"
The boy looked questioningly at Chiken, who gave him a nod that meant "Yes, go ahead!"
"As to my father, he is the great king of this land of Magadha," began the prince. "My mother was called Lady Gosuiten, and was one of the thousand ladies who served the king. When my mother was carrying me, the other ladies envied her and tricked her into going to Mount Chikoshakuō, where she was killed. I was almost killed too, but the animals saved me and I lived with them in the mountains for three years. Then Master Chiken took me and educated me for four years at his temple. So now today, I can stand before the great king!" He had spoken his piece well.
The king was amazed and looked searchingly at the boy's face: indeed, he did look just like his father. "This must be my son. The child I thought was dead is alive! And grown so big!" The king wept for sheer joy. Then after a time he said, "I heard that Lady Gosuiten had vanished, but I never dreamed it was the work of my nine hundred and ninety-nine other wives. How dared they deceive me like that? I'll have their heads, every last one of them! Bring them here at once!" He was wild with fury.
"Your majesty," said the prince, "please calm yourself. The ladies went mad with envy and committed an evil deed, to be sure; but chopping off their heads now will not bring my mother back to life. Women are jealous by nature. That they would be consumed with envy of my mother, who could have a child while they could not, is not surprising. I don't think the nine hundred and ninety-nine ladies are especially wicked women, and I hope you will forgive them. For is it not said that we should return good for evil?"
It would have been only natural for the prince, whose mother had been murdered, to feel far greater hatred for the ladies than the king himself felt; and if the boy spoke as he did, it must have been because the profound teachings of the Buddha had deeply entered his heart. What could the king say in reply? He was filled with admiration at the boy's words.
"I understand what you say, but I can't leave matters like this. I'll drive them out of my kingdom!"
"Your majesty, there is just one t
hing I would like you to ask the ladies, and that is where my mother's head is. I want to find her skull and bury it together with the rest of her bones there on Mount Chikoshakuō. I'll build a tomb for her and perform the memorial rites there."
The king approved of this plan and at once summoned the nine hundred and ninety-nine ladies and pressed them for the details of their plot against Lady Gosuiten. The facts were known, and yet each of the ladies tried to defend her action and blame everything on the others. "She was the one who did it, you know. I had nothing to do with it at all," said one. "I was against it from the very beginning," claimed another. "Lady Gosuiten and I were very close," insisted a third. Listening to them, the king grew more and more disgusted; but when he asked the whereabouts of the Lady's skull, he received a frank reply: it was buried under the stable gate, about three feet down.
The king had the skull dug up and showed it to the prince, who wept bitterly. He took it to Mount Chikoshakuō, buried it in a tomb together with the other remains, and offered fervent prayers for his mothers salvation. He remained by her tomb night and day, seeking to console her spirit. Seeing this, the king said to him, "I understand how much you miss your dear mother. But you're becoming too preoccupied with her, now that she is dead. Didn't the Buddha teach us that all things are impermanent? If you understand that truth, can't you see that it's more important to care for your one remaining parent than for your mother, who has gone to the other world? I'd like you to stay with me in the palace from today on. I will make you crown prince."
It was a splendid offer, but the prince replied, "I was raised with grass and stones as bedding, not brocade cushions. I was raised surrounded by wolves and tigers, not by crowds of servants and ladies-in-waiting. My body still smells of the woodlands, and my heart is like that of wolves and tigers. How could a person like me live at court and take the lofty rank of crown prince? After I have prayed for my mother's soul, I want to return to the forests and mountains." Nothing the king could say had any effect; the prince sat beside his mother's tomb day after day, chanting the scriptures for the repose of her soul. Finally the king turned to Chiken: "The prince resents me. He thinks that it was I who killed his mother. I was a fool to believe the slanders of my nine hundred and ninety-nine wives. I never dreamed that the nine hundred and ninety-nine old women who burst into the Gosuiten Palace in the middle of the night had been assembled from all over the land and sent there by my wives. I didn't think they could be creatures of this world. I was afraid, and abandoned Lady Gosuiten. I was a coward, a coward and a fool!" The king wept.
Lotus & Other Tales of Medieval Japan Page 14
