JAPANESE FAIRY TALES - 38 Japanese Fairy Tales and Legends

Japanese

Fairy Tales

Compiled and Translated by

Grace James

Illustrations By

WARWICK GOBLE

Originally Published by

Macmillan & Co. Ltd.

[1910]

Resurrected by

Abela Publishing, London

[2020]

Japanese Fairy Tales

Typographical arrangement of this edition

©Abela Publishing 2020

This book may not be reproduced in its current format

in any manner in any media, or transmitted

by any means whatsoever, electronic,

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(including photocopy, file or video recording,

internet web sites, blogs, wikis, or any other

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except as permitted by law

without the prior written permission

of the publisher.

Abela Publishing,

London, United Kingdom

2020

ISBN-13: 978-X-XXXXXX-XX-X

Email

[email protected]

Website

http://bit.ly/2HekG4n

The Moon Maiden.

Frontispiece.

Dedication

To

Miss Etsuko Kato

Acknowledgements

Abela Publishing

acknowledges the work that

GRACE JAMES

did in translating and publishing this book

and

WARWICK GOBLE

for illustrating

JAPANESE FAIRY TALES

in a time well before any electronic media was in use.

* * * * * * *

10% of the net profit from the sale of this book

will be donated to Charities.

Note

These tales and legends have been collected from many sources. Some of them have been selected from the Ko-ji-ki, or Record of Ancient Matters, which contains the mythology of Japan. Many are told from memory, being relics of childish days, originally heard from the lips of a school-fellow or a nurse. Certain of them, again, form favourite subjects for representation upon the Japanese stage. A number of the stories now gathered together have been translated into English long ere this, and have appeared in this country in one form or another; others are probably new to an English public.

Thanks are due to Marcus B. Huish, Esq., who has allowed his story, The Espousal of the Rat’s Daughter, to be included in this collection; and to Mrs. T. H. James for permission to use her version of The Matsuyama Mirror.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Note

Contents

List Of Illustrations

I       Green Willow

II       The Flute

III       The Tea-Kettle

IV       The Peony Lantern

V       The Sea King And The Magic Jewels

VI       The Good Thunder

VII       The Black Bowl

VIII       The Star Lovers

IX       Horaizan

X       Reflections

XI       The Story Of Susa, The Impetuous

XII       The Wind In The Pine Tree

XIII       Flower Of The Peony

XIV       The Mallet

XV       The Bell Of Dōjōji

Xvi       The Maiden Of Unai

XVII       The Robe Of Feathers

XVIII       The Singing Bird Of Heaven

XIX       The Cold Lady

XX       The Fire Quest

XXI A       Legend Of Kwannon

XXII       The Espousal Of The Rat’s Daughter

XXIII       The Land Of Yomi

XXVI       The Spring Lover And The Autumn Lover

XXV       The Strange Story Of The Golden Comb

XXVI       The Jelly-Fish Takes A Journey

XXVII       Urashima

XXVII       Tamamo, The Fox Maiden

XXIX       Momotaro

XXX       The Matsuyama Mirror

XXXI       Broken Images

XXXII       The Tongue-Cut Sparrow

XXXIII       The Nurse

XXXIV       The Beautiful Dancer Of Yedo

XXXV             Hana-Saka-Jiji

XXXVI       The Moon Maiden

XXXVII       Karma

XXXVIII       The Sad Story Of The Yaoya’s Daughter

Japanese Fairy Tales

and Other Stories

I

Green Willow

The Green Willow

Tomodata, the young samurai, owed allegiance to the Lord of Noto. He was a soldier, a courtier, and a poet. He had a sweet voice and a beautiful face, a noble form and a very winning address. He was a graceful dancer, and excelled in every manly sport. He was wealthy and generous and kind. He was beloved by rich and by poor.

Now his daimyo, the Lord of Noto, wanted a man to undertake a mission of trust. He chose Tomodata, and called him to his presence.

Are you loyal? said the daimyo.

My lord, you know it, answered Tomodata.

Do you love me, then? asked the daimyo.

Ay, my good lord, said Tomodata, kneeling before him.

Then carry my message, said the daimyo. Ride and do not spare your beast. Ride straight, and fear not the mountains nor the enemies’ country. Stay not for storm nor any other thing. Lose your life; but betray not your trust. Above all, do not look any maid between the eyes. Ride, and bring me word again quickly.

Thus spoke the Lord of Noto.

So Tomodata got him to horse, and away he rode upon his quest. Obedient to his lord’s commands, he spared not his good beast. He rode straight, and was not afraid of the steep mountain passes nor of the enemies’ country. Ere he had been three days upon the road the autumn tempest burst, for it was the ninth month. Down poured the rain in a torrent. Tomodata bowed his head and rode on. The wind howled in the pine-tree branches. It blew a typhoon. The good horse trembled and could scarcely keep its feet, but Tomodata spoke to it and urged it on. His own cloak he drew close about him and held it so that it might not blow away, and in this wise he rode on.

The fierce storm swept away many a familiar landmark of the road, and buffeted the samurai so that he became weary almost to fainting. Noontide was as dark as twilight, twilight was as dark as night, and when night fell it was as black as the night of Yomi, where lost souls wander and cry. By this time Tomodata had lost his way in a wild, lonely place, where, as it seemed to him, no human soul inhabited. His horse could carry him no longer, and he wandered on foot through bogs and marshes, through rocky and thorny tracks, until he fell into deep despair.

Alack! he cried, must I die in this wilderness and the quest of the Lord of Noto be unfulfilled?

At this moment the great winds blew away the clouds of the sky, so that the moon shone very brightly forth, and by the sudden light Tomodata saw a little hill on his right hand. Upon the hill was a small thatched cottage, and before the cottage grew three green weeping-willow trees.

Now, indeed, the gods be thanked! said Tomodata, and he climbed the hill in no time. Light shone from the chinks of the cottage door, and smoke curled out of a hole in the roof. The three willow trees swayed and flung out their green streamers in the wind. Tomodata threw his horse’s rein over a branch of one of them, and called for admittance to the longed-for shelter.

At once the cottage door was opened by an old woman, very poorly but neatly clad.

Who rides abroad upon such a night? she asked, and what wills he here?

"I am a weary traveller, lost and benighted upon your lonely moor. My name is Tomodata. I am a samurai in the service of the Lord of Noto, upon whose business I ride. Show me hospitality for the love of the gods. I crave food and shelter for myself and my horse."

As the young man stood speaking the water streamed from his garments. He reeled a little, and put out a hand to hold on by the side-post of the door.

Come in, come in, young sir! cried the old woman, full of pity. Come in to the warm fire. You are very welcome. We have but coarse fare to offer, but it shall be set before you with great good-will. As to your horse, I see you have delivered him to my daughter; he is in good hands.

At this Tomodata turned sharply round. Just behind him, in the dim light, stood a very young girl with the horse’s rein thrown over her arm. Her garments were blown about and her long loose hair streamed out upon the wind. The samurai wondered how she had come there. Then the old woman drew him into the cottage and shut the door. Before the fire sat the good man of the house, and the two old people did the very best they could for Tomodata. They gave him dry garments, comforted him with hot rice wine, and quickly prepared a good supper for him.

Presently the daughter of the house came in, and retired behind a screen to comb her hair and to dress afresh. Then she came forth to wait upon him. She wore a blue robe of homespun cotton. Her feet were bare. Her hair was not tied nor confined in any way, but lay along her smooth cheeks, and hung, straight and long and black, to her very knees. She was slender and graceful. Tomodata judged her to be about fifteen years old, and knew well that she was the fairest maiden he had ever seen.

At length she knelt at his side to pour wine into his cup. She held the wine-bottle in two hands and bent her head. Tomodata turned to look at her. When she had made an end of pouring the wine and had set down the bottle, their glances met, and Tomodata looked at her full between the eyes, for he forgot altogether the warning of his daimyo, the Lord of Noto.

Maiden, he said, what is your name?

She answered: They call me the Green Willow.

The dearest name on earth, he said, and again he looked her between the eyes. And because he looked so long her face grew rosy red, from chin to forehead, and though she smiled her eyes filled with tears.

Ah me, for the Lord of Noto’s quest!

Then Tomodata made this little song:

"Long-haired maiden, do you knowThat with the red dawn I must go?Do you wish me far away?Cruel long-haired maiden, say—Long-haired maiden, if you knowThat with the red dawn I must go,Why, oh why, do you blush so?"

And the maiden, the Green Willow, answered:

"The dawn comes if I will or no;Never leave me, never go.My sleeve shall hide the blush away.The dawn comes if I will or no;Never leave me, never go.Lord, I lift my long sleeve so...."

Oh, Green Willow, Green Willow ... sighed Tomodata.

That night he lay before the fire—still, but with wide eyes, for no sleep came to him though he was weary. He was sick for love of the Green Willow. Yet by the rules of his service he was bound in honour to think of no such thing. Moreover, he had the quest of the Lord of Noto that lay heavy on his heart, and he longed to keep truth and loyalty.

At the first peep of day he rose up. He looked upon the kind old man who had been his host, and left a purse of gold at his side as he slept. The maiden and her mother lay behind the screen.

Tomodata saddled and bridled his horse, and mounting, rode slowly away through the mist of the early morning. The storm was quite over and it was as still as Paradise. The green grass and the leaves shone with the wet. The sky was clear, and the path very bright with autumn flowers; but Tomodata was sad.

When the sunlight streamed across his saddlebow, Ah, Green Willow, Green Willow, he sighed; and at noontide it was Green Willow, Green Willow; and Green Willow, Green Willow, when the twilight fell. That night he lay in a deserted shrine, and the place was so holy that in spite of all he slept from midnight till the dawn. Then he rose, having it in his mind to wash himself in a cold stream that flowed nearby, so as to go refreshed upon his journey; but he was stopped upon the shrine’s threshold. There lay the Green Willow, prone upon the ground. A slender thing she lay, face downwards, with her black hair flung about her. She lifted a hand and held Tomodata by the sleeve. My lord, my lord, she said, and fell to sobbing piteously.

He took her in his arms without a word, and soon he set her on his horse before him, and together they rode the livelong day. It was little they recked of the road they went, for all the while they looked into each other’s eyes. The heat and the cold were nothing to them. They felt not the sun nor the rain; of truth or falsehood they thought nothing at all; nor of filial piety, nor of the Lord of Noto’s quest, nor of honour nor plighted word. They knew but the one thing. Alas, for the ways of love!

At last they came to an unknown city, where they stayed. Tomodata carried gold and jewels in his girdle, so they found a house built of white wood, spread with sweet white mats. In every dim room there could be heard the sound of the garden waterfall, whilst the swallow flitted across and across the paper lattice. Here they dwelt, knowing but the one thing. Here they dwelt three years of happy days, and for Tomodata and the Green Willow the years were like garlands of sweet flowers.

In the autumn of the third year it chanced that the two of them went forth into the garden at dusk, for they had a wish to see the round moon rise; and as they watched, the Green Willow began to shake and shiver.

My dear, said Tomodata, you shake and shiver; and it is no wonder, the night wind is chill. Come in. And he put his arm around her.

At this she gave a long and pitiful cry, very loud and full of agony, and when she had uttered the cry she failed, and dropped her head upon her love’s breast.

Tomodata, she whispered, say a prayer for me; I die.

Oh, say not so, my sweet, my sweet! You are but weary; you are faint.

He carried her to the stream’s side, where the iris grew like swords, and the lotus-leaves like shields, and laved her forehead with water. He said: What is it, my dear? Look up and live.

The tree, she moaned, the tree ... they have cut down my tree. Remember the Green Willow.

With that she slipped, as it seemed, from his arms to his feet; and he, casting himself upon the ground, found only silken garments, bright coloured, warm and sweet, and straw sandals, scarlet-thonged.

In after years, when Tomodata was a holy man, he travelled from shrine to shrine, painfully upon his feet, and acquired much merit.

Once, at nightfall, he found himself upon a lonely moor. On his right hand he beheld a little hill, and on it the sad ruins of a poor thatched cottage. The door swung to and fro with broken latch and creaking hinge. Before it stood three old stumps of willow trees that had long since been cut down. Tomodata stood for a long time still and silent. Then he sang gently to himself:

"Long-haired maiden, do you knowThat with the red dawn I must go? Do you wish me far away?Cruel long-haired maiden, say—Long-haired maiden, if you knowThat with the red dawn I must go,Why, oh why, do you blush so?"

Ah, foolish song! The gods forgive me.... I should have recited the Holy Sutra for the Dead, said Tomodata.

II

The Flute

The Flute

Long since, there lived in Yedo a gentleman of good lineage and very honest conversation. His wife was a gentle and loving lady. To his secret grief, she bore him no sons. But a daughter she did give him, whom they called O’Yoné, which, being interpreted, is Rice in the ear. Each of them loved this child more than life, and guarded her as the apple of their eye. And the child grew up red and white, and long-eyed, straight and slender as the green bamboo.

When O’Yoné was twelve years old, her mother drooped with the fall of the year, sickened, and pined, and ere the red had faded from the leaves of the maples she was dead and shrouded and laid in the earth. The husband was wild in his grief. He cried aloud, he beat his breast, he lay upon the ground and refused comfort, and for days he neither broke his fast nor slept. The child was quite silent.

Time passed by. The man perforce went about his business. The snows of winter fell and covered his wife’s grave. The beaten pathway from his house to the dwelling of the dead was snow also, undisturbed save for the faint prints of a child’s sandalled feet. In the spring-time he girded up his robe and went forth to see the cherry blossom, making merry enough, and writing a poem upon gilded paper, which he hung to a cherry-tree branch to flutter in the wind. The poem was in praise of the spring and of saké. Later, he planted the orange lily of forgetfulness, and thought of his wife no more. But the child remembered.

Before the year was out he brought a new bride home, a woman with a fair face and a black heart. But the man, poor fool, was happy, and commended his child to her, and believed that all was well.

Now because her father loved O’Yoné, her stepmother hated her with a jealous and deadly hatred, and every day she dealt cruelly by the child, whose gentle ways and patience only angered her the more. But because of her father’s presence she did not dare to do O’Yoné any great ill; therefore she waited, biding her time. The poor child passed her days and her nights in torment and horrible fear. But of these things she said not a word to her father. Such is the manner of children.

Now, after some time, it chanced that the man was called away by his business to a distant city. Kioto was the name of the city, and from Yedo it is many days’ journey on foot or on horseback. Howbeit, go the man needs must, and stay there three moons or more. Therefore he made ready, and equipped himself, and his servants that were to go with him, with all things needful; and so came to the last night before his departure, which was to be very early in the morning.

He called O’Yoné to him and said: Come here, then, my dear little daughter. So O’Yoné went and knelt before him.

What gift shall I bring you home from Kioto? he said.

But she hung her head and did not answer.

Answer, then, rude little one, he bade her. "Shall it be a golden fan, or a roll of silk, or a new obi of red brocade, or a great battledore with images upon it and many light-feathered shuttlecocks?"

Then she burst into bitter weeping, and he took her upon his knees to soothe her. But she hid her face with her sleeves and cried as if her heart would break. And, O father, father, father, she said, do not go away—do not go away!

But, my sweet, I needs must, he answered, and soon I shall be back—so soon, scarcely it will seem that I am gone, when I shall be here again with fair gifts in my hand.

Father, take me with you, she said.

"Alas, what a great way for a little girl! Will you walk on your feet, my little pilgrim, or mount a pack-horse? And how would you fare in the inns of Kioto? Nay, my dear, stay; it is but for