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  Then, out of the ground before him, rose up the figure of a white-robed woman, with long loose-flowing hair, holding a covered jar. And the woman said: "I have come to answer your fervent prayer as it deserves to be answered. Take, therefore, this jar." So saying, she put the jar into his hands, and disappeared.

  Into his house the happy man rushed, to tell his wife the good news. He set down in front of her the covered jar, — which was heavy, — and they opened it together. And they found that it was filled, up to the very brim, with . . .

  But, no!—I really cannot tell you with what it was filled.

  JİKİNİNKİ

  JİKİNİNKİ

  ONCE, when Musō Kokushi, a priest of the Zen sect, was journeying alone through the province of Mino, he lost his way in a mountain-district where there was nobody to direct him. For a long time he wandered about helplessly; and he was beginning to despair of finding shelter for the night, when he perceived, on the top of a hill lighted by the last rays of the sun, one of those little hermitages, called anjitsu, which are built for solitary priests. It seemed to be in a ruinous condition; but he hastened to it eagerly, and found that it was inhabited by an aged priest, from whom he begged the favor of a night's lodging. This the old man harshly refused; but he directed Mus5 to a certain hamlet, in the valley adjoining, where lodging and food could be obtained.

  Musō found his way to the hamlet, which consisted of less than a dozen farm-cottages; and he was kindly received at the dwelling of the headman. Forty or fifty persons were assembled in the principal apartment, at the moment of Musō's arrival; but he was shown into a small separate room, where he was promptly supplied with food and bedding. Being very tired, he lay down to rest at an early hour; but a little before midnight he was roused from sleep by a sound of loud weeping in the next apartment. Presently the sliding-screens were gently pushed apart; and a young man, carrying a lighted lantern, entered the room, respectfully saluted him, and said:—

  "Reverend Sir, it is my painful duty to tell you that I am now the responsible head of this house. Yesterday I was only the eldest son. But when you came here, tired as you were, we did not wish that you should feel embarrassed in any way : therefore we did not tell you that father had died only a few hours before. The people whom you saw in the next room are the inhabitants of this village: they all assembled here to pay their last respects to the dead; and now they are going to another village, about three miles off,— for, by our custom, no one of us may remain in this village during the night after a death has taken place. We make the proper offerings and prayers; — then we go away, leaving the corpse alone. Strange things always happen in the house where a corpse has thus been left: so we think that it will be better for you to come away with us. We can find you good lodging in the other village. But perhaps, as you are a priest, you have no fear of demons or evil spirits; and, if you are not afraid of being left alone with the body, you will be very welcome to the use of this poor house. However, I must tell you that nobody, except a priest, would dare to remain here tonight."

  Musō made answer:—

  "For your kind intention and your generous hospitality, I am deeply grateful. But I am sorry that you did not tell me of your father's death when I came; — for, though I was a little tired, I certainly was not so tired that I should have found any difficulty in doing my duty as a priest. Had you told me, I could have performed the service before your departure. As it is, I shall perform the service after you have gone away; and I shall stay by the body until morning. I do not know what you mean by your words about the danger of staying here alone; but I am not afraid of ghosts or demons: therefore please to feel no anxiety on my account."

  The young man appeared to be rejoiced by these assurances, and expressed his gratitude in fitting words. Then the other members of the family, and the folk assembled in the adjoining room, having been told of the priest's kind promises, came to thank him,— after which the master of the house said:—

  "Now, reverend Sir, much as we regret to leave you alone, we must bid you farewell. By the rule of our village, none of us can stay here after midnight. We beg, kind Sir, that you will take every care of your honorable body, while we are unable to attend upon you. And if you happen to hear or see anything strange during our absence, please tell us of the matter when we return in the morning."

  All then left the house, except the priest, who went to the room where the dead body was lying. The usual offerings had been set before the corpse; and a small Buddhist lamp — tōmyō — was burning. The priest recited the service, and performed the funeral ceremonies, — after which he entered into meditation. So meditating he remained through several silent hours; and there was no sound in the deserted village. But, when the hush of the night was at its deepest, there noiselessly entered a Shape, vague and vast; and in the same moment Musō found himself without power to move or speak. He saw that Shape lift the corpse, as with hands, and devour it, more quickly than a cat devours a rat, — beginning at the head, and eating everything: the hair and the bones and even the shroud. And the monstrous Thing, having thus consumed the body, turned to the offerings, and ate them also. Then it went away, as mysteriously as it had come.

  When the villagers returned next morning, they found the priest awaiting them at the door of the headman's dwelling. All in turn saluted him; and when they had entered, and looked about the room, no one expressed any surprise at the disappearance of the dead body and the offerings. But the master of the house said to Musō:—

  "Reverend Sir, you have probably seen unpleasant things during the night: all of us were anxious about you. But now we are very happy to find you alive and unharmed. Gladly we would have stayed with you, if it had been possible. But the law of our village, as I told you last evening, obliges us to quit our houses after a death has taken place, and to leave the corpse alone. Whenever this law has been broken, heretofore, some great misfortune has followed. Whenever it is obeyed, we find that the corpse and the offerings disappear during our absence. Perhaps you have seen the cause."

  Then Musō told of the dim and awful Shape that had entered the death-chamber to devour the body and the offerings. No person seemed to be surprised by his narration; and the master of the house observed:—

  "What you have told us, reverend Sir, agrees with what has been said about this matter from ancient time."

  Musō then inquired:—

  "Does not the priest on the hill sometimes perform the funeral-service for your dead?"

  "What priest?" the young man asked.

  "The priest who yesterday evening directed me to this village," answered Musō. "I called at his anjitsu on the hill yonder. He refused me lodging, but told me the way here."

  The listeners looked at each other, as in astonishment; and, after a moment of silence the master of the house said:—

  "Reverend Sir, there is no priest and there is no anjitsu on the hill. For the time of many generations there has not been any resident-priest in this neighborhood."

  Musō said nothing more on the subject; for it was evident that his kind hosts supposed him to have been deluded by some goblin. But after having bidden them farewell, and obtained all necessary information as to his road, he determined to look again for the hermitage on the hill, and so to ascertain whether he had really been deceived. He found the anjitsu without any difficulty; and, this time, its aged occupant invited him to enter. When he had done so, the hermit humbly bowed down before him, exclaiming:— "Ah! I am ashamed! — I am very much ashamed I — I am exceedingly ashamed!"

  "You need not be ashamed for having refused me shelter," said Musō. "You directed me to the village yonder, where I was very kindly treated; and I thank you for that favor."

  "I can give no man shelter," the recluse made answer; — "and it is not for the refusal that I am ashamed. I am ashamed only that you should have seen me in my real shape, — for it was I who devoured the corpse and the offerings last night before your eyes. . . . Know, reverend Sir, that I am
a jikininki,1 — an eater of human flesh. Have pity upon me, and suffer me to confess the secret fault by which I became reduced to this condition.

  "A long, long time ago, I was a priest in this desolate region. There was no other priest for many leagues around. So, in that time, the bodies of the mountain-folk who died used to be brought here, — sometimes from great distances, — in order that I might repeat over them the holy service. But I repeated the service and performed the rites only as a matter of business; — I thought only of the food and the clothes that my sacred profession enabled me to gain. And because of this selfish impiety I was reborn, immediately after my death, into the state of a jikininki. Since then I have been obliged to feed upon the corpses of the people who die in this district: every one of them I must devour in the way that you saw last night. . . . Now, reverend Sir, let me beseech you to perform a Ségaki-service2 for me: help me by your prayers, I entreat you, so that I may be soon able to escape from this horrible state of existence." . . .

  No sooner had the hermit uttered this petition than he disappeared; and the hermitage also disappeared at the same instant. And Musō Kokushi found himself kneeling alone in the high grass, beside an ancient and moss-grown tomb, of the form called go-rin-ishi,1 which seemed to be the tomb of a priest.

  Footnotes

  1 Literally, a man-eating goblin. The Japanese narrator gives also the Sanscrit term, "Râkshasa; " but this word is quite as vague as jikininki, since there are many kinds of Râkshasas. Apparently the word jikininki signifies here one of the Baramon-Rasetsu-Gaki, — forming the twenty-sixth class of pretas enumerated in the old Buddhist books.

  2 A Ségaki-service is a special Buddhist service performed on behalf of beings supposed to have entered into the condition of gaki (pretas), or hungry spirits. For a brief account of such a service, see my Japanese Miscellany.

  1 Literally, "five-circle [or 'five-zone'] stone." A funeral monument consisting of five parts superimposed, — each of a different form, — symbolizing the five mystic elements : Ether, Air, Fire, Water, Earth.

  MUJİNA

  MUJİNA

  ON the Akasaka Road, in Tōkyō, there is a slope called Kii-no-kuni-zaka,— which means the Slope of the Province of Kii. I do not know why it is called the Slope of the Province of Kii. On one side of this slope you see an ancient moat, deep and very wide, with high green banks rising up to some place of gardens; — and on the other side of the road extend the long and lofty walls of an imperial palace. Before the era of street-lamps and jinrikishas, this neighborhood was very lonesome after dark; and belated pedestrians would go miles out of their way rather than mount the Kii-no-kuni-zaka, alone, after sunset.

  All because of a Mujina that used to walk there.

  The last man who saw the Mujina was an old merchant of the Kyōbashi quarter, who died about thirty years ago. This is the story, as he told it:—

  One night, at a late hour, he was hurrying up the Kii-no-kuni-zaka, when he perceived a woman crouching by the moat, all alone, and weeping bitterly. Fearing that she intended to drown herself, he stopped to offer her any assistance or consolation in his power. She appeared to be a slight and graceful person, handsomely dressed; and her hair was arranged like that of a young girl of good family. "O-jochū,"1 he exclaimed, approaching her, — "O-jochū, do not cry like that! . . . Tell me what the trouble is; and if there be any way to help you, I shall be glad to help you." (He really meant what he said; for he was a very kind man.) But she continued to weep, — hiding her face from him with one of her long sleeves. "O-jochū," he said again, as gently as he could, —" please, please listen to me! . . . This is no place for a young lady at night!

  Do not cry, I implore you! — only tell me how I may be of some help to you!" Slowly she rose up, but turned her back to him, and continued to moan and sob behind her sleeve. He laid his hand lightly upon her shoulder, and pleaded:— "O-jochū I — O-jochū! — O-jochū I . . . Listen to me, just for one little moment! . . . O-jochū! — O-jochū!" ... Then that O-jochū turned round, and dropped her sleeve, and stroked her face with her hand; — and the man saw that she had no eyes or nose or mouth, —and he screamed and ran away.

  Up Kii-no-kuni-zaka he ran and ran; and all was black and empty before him. On and on he ran, never daring to look back; ánd at last he saw a lantern, so far away that it looked like the gleam of a firefly; and he made for it. It proved to be only the lantern of an itinerant soba-seller,1 who had set down his stand by the road-side; but any light and any human companionship was good after that experience; and he flung himself down at the feet of the soba-seller, crying out, "Aa! — aa!! —aa!!!"...

  "Koré! koré! " roughly exclaimed the soba-man. "Here! what is the matter with you? Anybody hurt you?"

  "No — nobody hurt me," panted the other, — "only . . . Aa! — aa! " . . .

  "—Only scared you?" queried the peddler, unsympathetically. "Robbers?"

  "Not robbers,— not robbers," gasped the terrified man. ..."I saw ... I saw a woman — by the moat; — and she showed me ... Aa! I cannot tell you what she showed me!" . . .

  "Hé! Was it anything like THIS that she showed you?" cried the soba-man, stroking his own face — which therewith became like unto an Egg. . . . And, simultaneously, the light went out.

  Footnotes

  1 O-jochū ("honorable damsel"), — a polite form of address used in speaking to a young lady whom one does not know.

  1 Soba is a preparation of buckwheat, somewhat resembling vermicelli.

  ROKURO-KUBİ

  ROKURO-KUBİ

  NEARLY five hundred years ago there was a samurai, named Isogai Héidazaëmon Takétsura, in the service of the Lord Kikuji, of Kyūshū. This Isogai had inherited, from many warlike ancestors, a natural aptitude for military exercises, and extraordinary strength. While yet a boy he had surpassed his teachers in the art of swordsmanship, in archery, and in the use of the spear, and had displayed all the capacities of a daring and skillful soldier. Afterwards, in the time of the Eikyō1 war, he so distinguished himself that high honors were bestowed upon him. But when the house of Kikuji came to ruin, Isogai found himself without a master. He might then easily have obtained service under another daimyō; but as he had never sought distinction for his own sake alone, and as his heart remained true to his former lord, he preferred to give up the world. So he cut off his hair, and became a traveling priest, — taking the Buddhist name of Kwairyō.

  But always, under the koromo1 of the priest, Kwairyō kept warm within him the heart of the samurai. As in other years he had laughed at peril, so now also he scorned danger; and in all weathers and all seasons he journeyed to preach the good Law in places where no other priest would have dared to go. For that age was an age of violence and disorder; and upon the highways there was no security for the solitary traveler, even if he happened to be a priest.

  In the course of his first long journey, Kwairyō had occasion to visit the province of Kai. One evening, as he was traveling through the mountains of that province, darkness overtook him in a very lonesome district, leagues away from any village. So he resigned himself to pass the night under the stars; and having found a suitable grassy spot, by the roadside, he lay down there, and prepared to sleep. He had always welcomed discomfort; and even a bare rock was for him a good bed, when nothing better could be found, and the root of a pine-tree an excellent pillow. His body was iron; and he never troubled himself about dews or rain or frost or snow.

  Scarcely had he lain down when a man came along the road, carrying an axe and a great bundle of chopped wood. This woodcutter halted on seeing Kwairyō lying down, and, after a moment of silent observation, said to him in a tone of great surprise:—

  "What kind of a man can you be, good Sir, that you dare to lie down alone in such a place as this? . . . There are haunters about here, — many of them. Are you not afraid of Hairy Things?"

  "My friend," cheerfully answered Kwairyō, "I am only a wandering priest, — a 'Cloud-and-Water-Guest,' as folks
call it: Un-sui-no-ryokaku. And I am not in the least afraid of Hairy Things, — if you mean goblin-foxes, or goblin-badgers, or any creatures of that kind. As for lonesome places, I like them: they are suitable for meditation. I am accustomed to sleeping in the open air: and I have learned never to be anxious about my life."

  "You must be indeed a brave man, Sir Priest," the peasant responded, "to lie down here! This place has a bad name, — a very bad name. But, as the proverb has it, Kunshi aya-yuki ni chikayorazu ['The superior man does not needlessly expose himself to peril']; and I must assure you, Sir, that it is very dangerous to sleep here. Therefore, although my house is only a wretched thatched hut, let me beg of you to come home with me at once. In the way of food, I have nothing to offer you; but there is a roof at least, and you can sleep under it without risk."

  He spoke earnestly; and Kwairyō, liking the kindly tone of the man, accepted this modest offer. The woodcutter guided him along a narrow path, leading up from the main road through mountain-forest. It was a rough and dangerous path, — sometimes skirting precipices, — sometimes offering nothing but a network of slippery roots for the foot to rest upon, — sometimes winding over or between masses of jagged rock. But at last Kwairyō found himself upon a cleared space at the top of a hill, with a full moon shining overhead; and he saw before him a small thatched cottage, cheerfully lighted from within. The woodcutter led him to a shed at the back of the house, whither water had been conducted, through bamboo-pipes, from some neighboring stream; and the two men washed their feet. Beyond the shed was a vegetable garden, and a grove of cedars and bamboos; and beyond the trees appeared the glimmer of a cascade, pouring from some loftier height, and swaying in the moonshine like a long white robe.