Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan (25 page)

'Shinda kodomo no shigoto,' my kurumaya murmurs with a compassionate
smile; 'all this is the work of the dead children.'

And we disembark. By counsel, I take off my shoes and put on a pair of
zori, or straw sandals provided for me, as the rock is extremely
slippery. The others land barefoot. But how to proceed soon becomes a
puzzle: the countless stone-piles stand so close together that no space
for the foot seems to be left between them.

'Mada michiga arimasu!' the boatwoman announces, leading the way. There
is a path.

Following after her, we squeeze ourselves between the wall of the cavern
on the right and some large rocks, and discover a very, very narrow
passage left open between the stone-towers. But we are warned to be
careful for the sake of the little ghosts: if any of their work be
overturned, they will cry. So we move very cautiously and slowly across
the cave to a space bare of stone-heaps, where the rocky floor is
covered with a thin layer of sand, detritus of a crumbling ledge above
it. And in that sand I see light prints of little feet, children's feet,
tiny naked feet, only three or four inches long—the footprints of the
infant ghosts.

Had we come earlier, the boatwoman says, we should have seen many more.
For 'tis at night, when the soil of the cavern is moist with dews and
drippings from the roof, that They leave Their footprints upon it; but
when the heat of the day comes, and the sand and the rocks dry up, the
prints of the little feet vanish away.

There are only three footprints visible, but these are singularly
distinct. One points toward the wall of the cavern; the others toward
the sea. Here and there, upon ledges or projections of the rock, all
about the cavern, tiny straw sandals—children's zori—are lying:
offerings of pilgrims to the little ones, that their feet may not be
wounded by the stones. But all the ghostly footprints are prints of
naked feet.

Then we advance, picking our way very, very carefully between the stone-
towers, toward the mouth of the inner grotto, and reach the statue of
Jizo before it. A seated Jizo carven in granite, holding in one hand the
mystic jewel by virtue of which all wishes may be fulfilled; in the
other his shakujo, or pilgrim's staff. Before him (strange condescension
of Shinto faith!) a little torii has been erected, and a pair of gohei!
Evidently this gentle divinity has no enemies; at the feet of the lover
of children's ghosts, both creeds unite in tender homage.

I said feet. But this subterranean Jizo has only one foot. The carven
lotus on which he reposes has been fractured and broken: two great
petals are missing; and the right foot, which must have rested upon one
of them, has been knocked off at the ankle. This, I learn upon inquiry,
has been done by the waves. In times of great storm the billows rush
into the cavern like raging Oni, and sweep all the little stone towers
into shingle as they come, and dash the statues against the rocks. But
always during the first still night after the tempest the work is
reconstructed as before!

Hotoke ga shimpai shite: naki-naki tsumi naoshi-masu.' They make
mourning, the hotoke; weeping, they pile up the stones again, they
rebuild their towers of prayer.

All about the black mouth of the inner grotto the bone-coloured rock
bears some resemblance to a vast pair of yawning jaws. Downward from
this sinister portal the cavern-floor slopes into a deeper and darker
aperture. And within it, as one's eyes become accustomed to the gloom, a
still larger vision of stone towers is disclosed; and beyond them, in a
nook of the grotto, three other statues of Jizo smile, each one with a
torii before it. Here I have the misfortune to upset first one stone-
pile and then another, while trying to proceed. My kurumaya, almost
simultaneously, ruins a third. To atone therefore, we must build six new
towers, or double the number of those which we have cast down. And while
we are thus busied, the boatwoman tells of two fishermen who remained in
the cavern through all one night, and heard the humming of the viewless
gathering, and sounds of speech, like the speech of children murmuring
in multitude.

Only at night do the shadowy children come to build their little stone-
heaps at the feet of Jizo; and it is said that every night the stones
are changed. When I ask why they do not work by day, when there is none
to see them, I am answered: 'O-Hi-San
[65]
might see them; the dead
exceedingly fear the Lady-Sun.'

To the question, 'Why do they come from the sea?' I can get no
satisfactory answer. But doubtless in the quaint imagination of this
people, as also in that of many another, there lingers still the
primitive idea of some communication, mysterious and awful, between the
world of waters and the world of the dead. It is always over the sea,
after the Feast of Souls, that the spirits pass murmuring back to their
dim realm, in those elfish little ships of straw which are launched for
them upon the sixteenth day of the seventh moon. Even when these are
launched upon rivers, or when floating lanterns are set adrift upon
lakes or canals to light the ghosts upon their way, or when a mother
bereaved drops into some running stream one hundred little prints of
Jizo for the sake of her lost darling, the vague idea behind the pious
act is that all waters flow to the sea and the sea itself unto the
'Nether-distant Land.'

Some time, somewhere, this day will come back to me at night, with its
visions and sounds: the dusky cavern, and its grey hosts of stone
climbing back into darkness, and the faint prints of little naked feet,
and the weirdly smiling images, and the broken syllables of the waters
inward-borne, multiplied by husky echoings, blending into one vast
ghostly whispering, like the humming of the Sai-no-Kawara.

And over the black-blue bay we glide to the rocky beach of Kaka-ura.

As at Mitsu-ura, the water's edge is occupied by a serried line of
fishing-boats, each with its nose to the sea; and behind these are ranks
of others; and it is only just barely possible to squeeze one's way
between them over the beach to the drowsy, pretty, quaint little streets
behind them. Everybody seems to be asleep when we first land: the only
living creature visible is a cat, sitting on the stern of a boat; and
even that cat, according to Japanese beliefs, might not be a real cat,
but an o-bake or a nekomata—in short, a goblin-cat, for it has a long
tail. It is hard work to discover the solitary hotel: there are no
signs; and every house seems a private house, either a fisherman's or a
farmer's. But the little place is worth wandering about in. A kind of
yellow stucco is here employed to cover the exterior of walls; and this
light warm tint under the bright blue day gives to the miniature streets
a more than cheerful aspect.

When we do finally discover the hotel, we have to wait quite a good
while before going in; for nothing is ready; everybody is asleep or
away, though all the screens and sliding-doors are open. Evidently there
are no thieves in Kaka-ura. The hotel is on a little hillock, and is
approached from the main street (the rest are only miniature alleys) by
two little flights of stone steps. Immediately across the way I see a
Zen temple and a Shinto temple, almost side by side.

At last a pretty young woman, naked to the waist, with a bosom like a
Naiad, comes running down the street to the hotel at a surprising speed,
bowing low with a smile as she hurries by us into the house. This little
person is the waiting-maid of the inn, O-Kayo-San—name signifying
'Years of Bliss.' Presently she reappears at the threshold, fully robed
in a nice kimono, and gracefully invites us to enter, which we are only
too glad to do. The room is neat and spacious; Shinto kakemono from
Kitzuki are suspended in the toko and upon the walls; and in one corner
I see a very handsome Zen-but-sudan, or household shrine. (The form of
the shrine, as well as the objects of worship therein, vary according to
the sect of the worshippers.) Suddenly I become aware that it is growing
strangely dark; and looking about me, perceive that all the doors and
windows and other apertures of the inn are densely blocked up by a
silent, smiling crowd which has gathered to look at me. I could not have
believed there were so many people in Kaka-ura.

In a Japanese house, during the hot season, everything is thrown open to
the breeze. All the shoji or sliding paper-screens, which serve for
windows; and all the opaque paper-screens (fusuma) used in other seasons
to separate apartments, are removed. There is nothing left between floor
and roof save the frame or skeleton of the building; the dwelling is
literally unwalled, and may be seen through in any direction. The
landlord, finding the crowd embarrassing, closes up the building in
front. The silent, smiling crowd goes to the rear. The rear is also
closed. Then the crowd masses to right and left of the house; and both
sides have to be closed, which makes it insufferably hot. And the crowd
make gentle protest.

Wherefore our host, being displeased, rebukes the multitude with
argument and reason, yet without lifting his voice. (Never do these
people lift up their voices in anger.) And what he says I strive to
translate, with emphasis, as follows:

'You-as-for! outrageousness doing—what marvellous is?
'Theatre is not!
'Juggler is not!
'Wrestler is not!
'What amusing is?
'Honourable-Guest this is!
'Now august-to-eat-time-is; to-look-at evil matter is.
Honourable-returning-time-in-to-look-at-as-for-is-good.'

But outside, soft laughing voices continue to plead; pleading,
shrewdly enough, only with the feminine portion of the family:
the landlord's heart is less easily touched. And these, too,
have their arguments:

'Oba-San!
'O-Kayo-San!
'Shoji-to-open-condescend!—want to see! 'Though-we-look-at,
Thing-that-by-looking-at-is-worn-out-it-is-not!
'So that not-to-hinder looking-at is good.
'Hasten therefore to open!'

As for myself, I would gladly protest against this sealing-up, for there
is nothing offensive nor even embarrassing in the gaze of these
innocent, gentle people; but as the landlord seems to be personally
annoyed, I do not like to interfere. The crowd, however, does not go
away: it continues to increase, waiting for my exit. And there is one
high window in the rear, of which the paper-panes contain some holes;
and I see shadows of little people climbing up to get to the holes.
Presently there is an eye at every hole.

When I approach the window, the peepers drop noiselessly to the ground,
with little timid bursts of laughter, and run away. But they soon come
back again. A more charming crowd could hardly be imagined: nearly all
boys and girls, half-naked because of the heat, but fresh and clean as
flower-buds. Many of the faces are surprisingly pretty; there are but
very few which are not extremely pleasing. But where are the men, and
the old women? Truly, this population seems not of Kaka-ura, but rather
of the Sai-no-Kawara. The boys look like little Jizo.

During dinner, I amuse myself by poking pears and little pieces of
radish through the holes in the shoji. At first there is much hesitation
and silvery laughter; but in a little while the silhouette of a tiny
hand reaches up cautiously, and a pear vanishes away. Then a second pear
is taken, without snatching, as softly as if a ghost had appropriated
it. Thereafter hesitation ceases, despite the effort of one elderly
woman to create a panic by crying out the word Mahotsukai, 'wizard.' By
the time the dinner is over and the shoji removed, we have all become
good friends. Then the crowd resumes its silent observation from the
four cardinal points.

I never saw a more striking difference in the appearance of two village
populations than that between the youth of Mitsu-ura and of Kaka. Yet
the villages are but two hours' sailing distance apart. In remoter
Japan, as in certain islands of the West Indies, particular physical
types are developed apparently among communities but slightly isolated;
on one side of a mountain a population may be remarkably attractive,
while upon the other you may find a hamlet whose inhabitants are
decidedly unprepossessing. But nowhere in this country have I seen a
prettier jeunesse than that of Kaka-ura.

'Returning-time-in-to-look-at-as-for-is-good.' As we descend to the bay,
the whole of Kaka-ura, including even the long-invisible ancients of the
village, accompanies us; making no sound except the pattering of geta.
Thus we are escorted to our boat. Into all the other craft drawn up on
the beach the younger folk clamber lightly, and seat themselves on the
prows and the gunwales to gaze at the marvellous Thing-that-by-looking-
at-worn-out-is-not. And all smile, but say nothing, even to each other:
somehow the experience gives me the sensation of being asleep; it is so
soft, so gentle, and so queer withal, just like things seen in dreams.
And as we glide away over the blue lucent water I look back to see the
people all waiting and gazing still from the great semicircle of boats;
all the slender brown child-limbs dangling from the prows; all the
velvety-black heads motionless in the sun; all the boy-faces smiling
Jizo-smiles; all the black soft eyes still watching, tirelessly
watching, the Thing-that-by-looking-at-worn-out-is-not. And as the
scene, too swiftly receding, diminishes to the width of a kakemono, I
vainly wish that I could buy this last vision of it, to place it in my
toko, and delight my soul betimes with gazing thereon. Yet another
moment, and we round a rocky point; and Kaka-ura vanishes from my sight
for ever. So all things pass away.

Assuredly those impressions which longest haunt recollection are the
most transitory: we remember many more instants than minutes, more
minutes than hours; and who remembers an entire day? The sum of the
remembered happiness of a lifetime is the creation of seconds. 'What is
more fugitive than a smile? yet when does the memory of a vanished smile
expire? or the soft regret which that memory may evoke?