Japanese Fairy Tales

[Goblin King]

Here follows the first story from the Japanese Fairy Tales compiled by Yei Theodora Ozaki

Source text: www.gutenberg.org/dirs/etext03/jpnft10.txt

---

MY LORD BAG OF RICE


Long, long ago there lived, in Japan a brave warrior known to all as
Tawara Toda, or "My Lord Bag of Rice." His true name was Fujiwara
Hidesato, and there is a very interesting story of how he came to
change his name.

One day he sallied forth in search of adventures, for he had the
nature of a warrior and could not bear to be idle. So he buckled on
his two swords, took his huge bow, much taller than himself, in his
hand, and slinging his quiver on his back started out. He had not
gone far when he came to the bridge of Seta-no-Karashi spanning one
end of the beautiful Lake Biwa. No sooner had he set foot on the
bridge than he saw lying right across his path a huge serpent-
dragon. Its body was so big that it looked like the trunk of a large
pine tree and it took up the whole width of the bridge. One of its
huge claws rested on the parapet of one side of the bridge, while
its tail lay right against the other. The monster seemed to be
asleep, and as it breathed, fire and smoke came out of its nostrils.

At first Hidesato could not help feeling alarmed at the sight of
this horrible reptile lying in his path, for he must either turn
back or walk right over its body. He was a brave man, however, and
putting aside all fear went forward dauntlessly. Crunch, crunch! he
stepped now on the dragon's body, now between its coils, and without
even one glance backward he went on his way.

He had only gone a few steps when he heard some one calling him from
behind. On turning back he was much surprised to see that the
monster dragon had entirely disappeared and in its place was a
strange-looking man, who was bowing most ceremoniously to the
ground. His red hair streamed over his shoulders and was surmounted
by a crown in the shape of a dragon's head, and his sea-green dress
was patterned with shells. Hidesato knew at once that this was no
ordinary mortal and he wondered much at the strange occurrence.
Where had the dragon gone in such a short space of time? Or had it
transformed itself into this man, and what did the whole thing mean?
While these thoughts passed through his mind he had come up to the
man on the bridge and now addressed him:

"Was it you that called me just now?"

"Yes, it was I," answered the man: "I have an earnest request to
make to you. Do you think you can grant it to me?"

"If it is in my power to do so I will," answered Hidesato, "but
first tell me who you are?"

"I am the Dragon King of the Lake, and my home is in these waters
just under this bridge."

"And what is it you have to ask of me!" said Hidesato.

"I want you to kill my mortal enemy the centipede, who lives on the
mountain beyond," and the Dragon King pointed to a high peak on the
opposite shore of the lake.

"I have lived now for many years in this lake and I have a large
family of children and grand-children. For some time past we have
lived in terror, for a monster centipede has discovered our home,
and night after night it comes and carries off one of my family. I
am powerless to save them. If it goes on much longer like this, not
only shall I lose all my children, but I myself must fall a victim
to the monster. I am, therefore, very unhappy, and in my extremity I
determined to ask the help of a human being. For many days with this
intention I have waited on the bridge in the shape of the horrible
serpent-dragon that you saw, in the hope that some strong brave man
would come along. But all who came this way, as soon as they saw me
were terrified and ran away as fast as they could. You are the first
man I have found able to look at me without fear, so I knew at once
that you were a man of great courage. I beg you to have pity upon
me. Will you not help me and kill my enemy the centipede?"

Hidesato felt very sorry for the Dragon King on hearing his story,
and readily promised to do what he could to help him. The warrior
asked where the centipede lived, so that he might attack the
creature at once. The Dragon King replied that its home was on the
mountain Mikami, but that as it came every night at a certain hour
to the palace of the lake, it would be better to wait till then. So
Hidesato was conducted to the palace of the Dragon King, under the
bridge. Strange to say, as he followed his host downwards the waters
parted to let them pass, and his clothes did not even feel damp as
he passed through the flood. Never had Hidesato seen anything so
beautiful as this palace built of white marble beneath the lake. He
had often heard of the Sea King's palace at the bottom of the sea,
where all the servants and retainers were salt-water fishes, but
here was a magnificent building in the heart of Lake Biwa. The
dainty goldfishes, red carp, and silvery trout, waited upon the
Dragon King and his guest.

Hidesato was astonished at the feast that was spread for him. The
dishes were crystallized lotus leaves and flowers, and the
chopsticks were of the rarest ebony. As soon as they sat down, the
sliding doors opened and ten lovely goldfish dancers came out, and
behind them followed ten red-carp musicians with the koto and the
samisen. Thus the hours flew by till midnight, and the beautiful
music and dancing had banished all thoughts of the centipede. The
Dragon King was about to pledge the warrior in a fresh cup of wine
when the palace was suddenly shaken by a tramp, tramp! as if a
mighty army had begun to march not far away.

Hidesato and his host both rose to their feet and rushed to the
balcony, and the warrior saw on the opposite mountain two great
balls of glowing fire coming nearer and nearer. The Dragon King
stood by the warrior's side trembling with fear.

"The centipede! The centipede! Those two balls of fire are its eyes.
It is coming for its prey! Now is the time to kill it."

Hidesato looked where his host pointed, and, in the dim light of the
starlit evening, behind the two balls of fire he saw the long body
of an enormous centipede winding round the mountains, and the light
in its hundred feet glowed like so many distant lanterns moving
slowly towards the shore.

Hidesato showed not the least sign of fear. He tried to calm the
Dragon King.

"Don't be afraid. I shall surely kill the centipede. Just bring me
my bow and arrows."

The Dragon King did as he was bid, and the warrior noticed that he
had only three arrows left in his quiver. He took the bow, and
fitting an arrow to the notch, took careful aim and let fly.

The arrow hit the centipede right in the middle of its head, but
instead of penetrating, it glanced off harmless and fell to the
ground.

Nothing daunted, Hidesato took another arrow, fitted it to the notch
of the bow and let fly. Again the arrow hit the mark, it struck the
centipede right in the middle of its head, only to glance off and
fall to the ground. The centipede was invulnerable to weapons! When
the Dragon King saw that even this brave warrior's arrows were
powerless to kill the centipede, he lost heart and began to tremble
with fear.

The warrior saw that he had now only one arrow left in his quiver,
and if this one failed he could not kill the centipede. He looked
across the waters. The huge reptile had wound its horrid body seven
times round the mountain and would soon come down to the lake.
Nearer and nearer gleamed fireballs of eyes, and the light of its
hundred feet began to throw reflections in the still waters of the
lake.

Then suddenly the warrior remembered that he had heard that human
saliva was deadly to centipedes. But this was no ordinary centipede.
This was so monstrous that even to think of such a creature made one
creep with horror. Hidesato determined to try his last chance. So
taking his last arrow and first putting the end of it in his mouth,
he fitted the notch to his bow, took careful aim once more and let
fly.

This time the arrow again hit the centipede right in the middle of
its head, but instead of glancing off harmlessly as before, it
struck home to the creature's brain. Then with a convulsive shudder
the serpentine body stopped moving, and the fiery light of its great
eyes and hundred feet darkened to a dull glare like the sunset of a
stormy day, and then went out in blackness. A great darkness now
overspread the heavens, the thunder rolled and the lightning
flashed, and the wind roared in fury, and it seemed as if the world
were coming to an end. The Dragon King and his children and
retainers all crouched in different parts of the palace, frightened
to death, for the building was shaken to its foundation. At last the
dreadful night was over. Day dawned beautiful and clear. The
centipede was gone from the mountain.

Then Hidesato called to the Dragon King to come out with him on the
balcony, for the centipede was dead and he had nothing more to fear.

Then all the inhabitants of the palace came out with joy, and
Hidesato pointed to the lake. There lay the body of the dead
centipede floating on the water, which was dyed red with its blood.

The gratitude of the Dragon King knew no bounds. The whole family
came and bowed down before the warrior, calling him their preserver
and the bravest warrior in all Japan.

Another feast was prepared, more sumptuous than the first. All kinds
of fish, prepared in every imaginable way, raw, stewed, boiled and
roasted, served on coral trays and crystal dishes, were put before
him, and the wine was the best that Hidesato had ever tasted in his
life. To add to the beauty of everything the sun shone brightly, the
lake glittered like a liquid diamond, and the palace was a thousand
times more beautiful by day than by night.

His host tried to persuade the warrior to stay a few days, but
Hidesato insisted on going home, saying that he had now finished
what he had come to do, and must return. The Dragon King and his
family were all very sorry to have him leave so soon, but since he
would go they begged him to accept a few small presents (so they
said) in token of their gratitude to him for delivering them forever
from their horrible enemy the centipede.

As the warrior stood in the porch taking leave, a train of fish was
suddenly transformed into a retinue of men, all wearing ceremonial
robes and dragon's crowns on their heads to show that they were
servants of the great Dragon King. The presents that they carried
were as follows:

First, a large bronze bell.
Second, a bag of rice.
Third, a roll of silk.
Fourth, a cooking pot.
Fifth, a bell.

Hidesato did not want to accept all these presents, but as the
Dragon King insisted, he could not well refuse.

The Dragon King himself accompanied the warrior as far as the
bridge, and then took leave of him with many bows and good wishes,
leaving the procession of servants to accompany Hidesato to his
house with the presents.

The warrior's household and servants had been very much concerned
when they found that he did not return the night before, but they
finally concluded that he had been kept by the violent storm and had
taken shelter somewhere. When the servants on the watch for his
return caught sight of him they called to every one that he was
approaching, and the whole household turned out to meet him,
wondering much what the retinue of men, bearing presents and
banners, that followed him, could mean.

As soon as the Dragon King's retainers had put down the presents
they vanished, and Hidesato told all that had happened to him.

The presents which he had received from the grateful Dragon King
were found to be of magic power. The bell only was ordinary, and as
Hidesato had no use for it he presented it to the temple near by,
where it was hung up, to boom out the hour of day over the
surrounding neighborhood.

The single bag of rice, however much was taken from it day after day
for the meals of the knight and his whole family, never grew less--
the supply in the bag was inexhaustible.

The roll of silk, too, never grew shorter, though time after time
long pieces were cut off to make the warrior a new suit of clothes
to go to Court in at the New Year.

The cooking pot was wonderful, too. No matter what was put into it,
it cooked deliciously whatever was wanted without any firing--truly
a very economical saucepan.

The fame of Hidesato's fortune spread far and wide, and as there was
no need for him to spend money on rice or silk or firing, he became
very rich and prosperous, and was henceforth known as My Lord Bag of
Rice.

[lollipop]

What a nice story! Are there any more of them? I love foreign fairy tales!

[Goblin King]

I've just had some trouble with the link I posted before

So try this for the full text of all the tales:

www.mirrorservice.org/sites/ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext03/jpnft10.txt

Alternatively I could post another story here, but you would have to choose one at a time from the following list:

MY LORD BAG OF RICE

THE TONGUE-CUT SPARROW

THE STORY OF URASHIMA TARO, THE FISHER LAD

THE FARMER AND THE BADGER

THE "shinansha," OR THE SOUTH POINTING CARRIAGE

THE ADVENTURES OF KINTARO, THE GOLDEN BOY

THE STORY OF PRINCESS HASE

THE STORY OF THE MAN WHO DID NOT WISH TO DIE

THE BAMBOO-CUTTER AND THE MOON-CHILD

THE MIRROR OF MATSUYAMA

THE GOBLIN OF ADACHIGAHARA

THE SAGACIOUS MONKEY AND THE BOAR

THE HAPPY HUNTER AND THE SKILLFUL FISHER

THE STORY OF THE OLD MAN WHO MADE WITHERED TREES TO FLOWER

THE JELLY FISH AND THE MONKEY

THE QUARREL OF THE MONKEY AND THE CRAB

THE WHITE HARE AND THE CROCODILES

THE STORY OF PRINCE YAMATO TAKE

MOMOTARO, OR THE STORY OF THE SON OF A PEACH

THE OGRE OF RASHOMON

HOW AN OLD MAN LOST HIS WEN

THE STONES OF FIVE COLORS AND THE EMPRESS JOKWA

[lollipop]

Oh, let's do that! It's like "Please GK, tell us a story!"
*resists any references to softness for fear of losing story priviledges*

I wanna hear about The Quarrel of the MOnkey and the Crab ;D

[Goblin King]

Ooh I haven't read this one ...

Let's see ...

---

THE QUARREL OF TEE MONKEY AND THE CRAB.


Long, long ago, one bright autumn day in Japan, it happened, that a
pink-faced monkey and a yellow crab were playing together along the
bank of a river. As they were running about, the crab found a rice-
dumpling and the monkey a persimmon-seed.

The crab picked up the rice-dumpling and showed it to the monkey,
saying:

"Look what a nice thing I have found!"

Then the monkey held up his persimmon-seed and said:

"I also have found something good! Look!"

Now though the monkey is always very fond of persimmon fruit, he had
no use for the seed he had just found. The persimmon-seed is as hard
and uneatable as a stone. He, therefore, in his greedy nature, felt
very envious of the crab's nice dumpling, and he proposed an
exchange. The crab naturally did not see why he should give up his
prize for a hard stone-like seed, and would not consent to the
monkey's proposition.

Then the cunning monkey began to persuade the crab, saying:

"How unwise you are not to think of the future! Your rice-dumpling
can be eaten now, and is certainly much bigger than my seed; but if
you sow this seed in the ground it will soon grow and become a great
tree in a few years, and bear an abundance of fine ripe persimmons
year after year. If only I could show it to you then with the yellow
fruit hanging on its branches! Of course, if you don't believe me I
shall sow it myself; though I am sure, later on, you will be very
sorry that you did not take my advice."

The simple-minded crab could not resist the monkey's clever
persuasion. He at last gave in and consented to the monkey's
proposal, and the exchange was made. The greedy monkey soon gobbled
up the dumpling, and with great reluctance gave up the persimmon-
seed to the crab. He would have liked to keep that too, but he was
afraid of making the crab angry and of being pinched by his sharp
scissor-like claws. They then separated, the monkey going home to
his forest trees and the crab to his stones along the river-side. As
soon as the crab reached home he put the persimmon-seed in the
ground as the monkey had told him.

In the following spring the crab was delighted to see the shoot of a
young tree push its way up through the ground. Each year it grew
bigger, till at last it blossomed one spring, and in the following
autumn bore some fine large persimmons. Among the broad smooth green
leaves the fruit hung like golden balls, and as they ripened they
mellowed to a deep orange. It was the little crab's pleasure to go
out day by day and sit in the sun and put out his long eyes in the
same way as a snail puts out its horn, and watch the persimmons
ripening to perfection.

"How delicious they will be to eat!" he said to himself.

At last, one day, he knew the persimmons must be quite ripe and he
wanted very much to taste one. He made several attempts to climb the
tree, in the vain hope of reaching one of the beautiful persimmons
hanging above him; but he failed each time, for a crab's legs are
not made for climbing trees but only for running along the ground
and over stones, both of which he can do most cleverly. In his
dilemma he thought of his old playmate the monkey, who, he knew,
could climb trees better than any one else in the world. He
determined to ask the monkey to help him, and set out to find him.

Running crab-fashion up the stony river bank, over the pathways into
the shadowy forest, the crab at last found the monkey taking an
afternoon nap in his favorite pine-tree, with his tail curled tight
around a branch to prevent him from falling off in his dreams. He
was soon wide awake, however, when he heard himself called, and
eagerly listening to what the crab told him. When he heard that the
seed which he had long ago exchanged for a rice-dumpling had grown
into a tree and was now bearing good fruit, he was delighted, for he
at once devised a cunning plan which would give him all the
persimmons for himself.

He consented to go with the crab to pick the fruit for him. When
they both reached the spot, the monkey was astonished to see what a
fine tree had sprung from the seed, and with what a number of ripe
persimmons the branches were loaded.

He quickly climbed the tree and began to pluck and eat, as fast as
he could, one persimmon after another. Each time he chose the best
and ripest he could find, and went on eating till he could eat no
more. Not one would he give to the poor hungry crab waiting below,
and when he had finished there was little but the hard, unripe fruit
left.

You can imagine the feelings of the poor crab after waiting
patiently, for so long as he had done, for the tree to grow and the
fruit to ripen, when he saw the monkey devouring all the good
persimmons. He was so disappointed that he ran round and round the
tree calling to the monkey to remember his promise. The monkey at
first took no notice of the crab's complaints, but at last he picked
out the hardest, greenest persimmon he could find and aimed it at
the crab's head. The persimmon is as hard as stone when it is
unripe. The monkey's missile struck home and the crab was sorely
hurt by the blow. Again and again, as fast as he could pick them,
the monkey pulled off the hard persimmons and threw them at the
defenseless crab till he dropped dead, covered with wounds all over
his body. There he lay a pitiful sight at the foot of the tree he
had himself planted.

When the wicked monkey saw that he had killed the crab he ran away
from the spot as fast as he could, in fear and trembling, like a
coward as he was.

Now the crab had a son who had been playing with a friend not far
from the spot where this sad work had taken place. On the way home
he came across his father dead, in a most dreadful condition--his
head was smashed and his shell broken in several places, and around
his body lay the unripe persimmons which had done their deadly work.
At this dreadful sight the poor young crab sat down and wept.

But when he had wept for some time he told himself that this crying
would do no good; it was his duty to avenge his father's murder, and
this he determined to do. He looked about for some clue which would
lead him to discover the murderer. Looking up at the tree he noticed
that the best fruit had gone, and that all around lay bits of peel
and numerous seeds strewn on the ground as well as the unripe
persimmons which had evidently been thrown at his father. Then he
understood that the monkey was the murderer, for he now remembered
that his father had once told him the story of the rice-dumpling and
the persimmon-seed. The young crab knew that monkeys liked
persimmons above all other fruit, and he felt sure that his greed
for the coveted fruit had been the cause of the old crab's death.
Alas!

He at first thought of going to attack the monkey at once, for he
burned with rage. Second thoughts, however, told him that this was
useless, for the monkey was an old and cunning animal and would be
hard to overcome. He must meet cunning with cunning and ask some of
his friends to help him, for he knew it would be quite out of his
power to kill him alone.

The young crab set out at once to call on the mortar, his father's
old friend, and told him of all that had happened. He besought the
mortar with tears to help him avenge his father's death. The mortar
was very sorry when he heard the woful tale and promised at once to
help the young crab punish the monkey to death. He warned him that
he must be very careful in what he did, for the monkey was a strong
and cunning enemy. The mortar now sent to fetch the bee and the
chestnut (also the crab's old friends) to consult them about the
matter. In a short time the bee and the chestnut arrived. When they
were told all the details of the old crab's death and of the
monkey's wickedness and greed, they both gladly consented to help
the young crab in his revenge.

After talking for a long time as to the ways and means of carrying
out their plans they separated, and Mr. Mortar went home with the
young crab to help him bury his poor father.

While all this was taking place the monkey was congratulating
himself (as the wicked often do before their punishment comes upon
them) on all he had done so neatly. He thought it quite a fine thing
that he had robbed his friend of all his ripe persimmons and then
that he had killed him. Still, smile as hard as he might, he could
not banish altogether the fear of the consequences should his evil
deeds be discovered. IF he were found out (and he told himself that
this could not be for he had escaped unseen) the crab's family would
be sure to bear him hatred and seek to take revenge on him. So he
would not go out, and kept himself at home for several days. He
found this kind of life, however, extremely dull, accustomed as he
was to the free life of the woods, and at last he said:

"No one knows that it was I who killed the crab! I am sure that the
old thing breathed his last before I left him. Dead crabs have no
mouths! Who is there to tell that I am the murderer? Since no one
knows, what is the use of shutting myself up and brooding over the
matter? What is done cannot be undone!"

With this he wandered out into the crab settlement and crept about
as slyly as possible near the crab's house and tried to hear the
neighbors' gossip round about. He wanted to find out what the crabs
were saving about their chief's death, for the old crab had been the
chief of the tribe. But he heard nothing and said to himself:

"They are all such fools that they don't know and don't care who
murdered their chief!"

Little did he know in his so-called "monkey's wisdom" that this
seeming unconcern was part of the young crab's plan. He purposely
pretended not to know who killed his father, and also to believe
that he had met his death through his own fault. By this means he
could the better keep secret the revenge on the monkey, which he was
meditating.

So the monkey returned home from his walk quite content. He told
himself he had nothing now to fear.

One fine day, when the monkey was sitting at home, he was surprised
by the appearance of a messenger from the young crab. While he was
wondering what this might mean, the messenger bowed before him and
said:

"I have been sent by my master to inform you that his father died
the other day in falling from a persimmon tree while trying to climb
the tree after fruit. This, being the seventh day, is the first
anniversary after his death, and my master has prepared a little
festival in his father's honor, and bids you come to participate in
it as you were one of his best friends. My master hopes you will
honor his house with your kind visit."

When the monkey heard these words he rejoiced in his inmost heart,
for all his fears of being suspected were now at rest. He could not
guess that a plot had just been set in motion against him. He
pretended to be very surprised at the news of the crab's death, and
said:

"I am, indeed, very sorry to hear of your chief's death. We were
great friends as you know. I remember that we once exchanged a rice-
dumpling for a persimmon-seed. It grieves me much to think that that
seed was in the end the cause of his death. I accept your kind
invitation with many thanks. I shall be delighted to do honor to my
poor old friend!" And he screwed some false tears from his eyes.

The messenger laughed inwardly and thought, "The wicked monkey is
now dropping false tears, but within a short time he shall shed real
ones." But aloud he thanked the monkey politely and went home.

When he had gone, the wicked monkey laughed aloud at what he thought
was the young crab's innocence, and without the least feeling began
to look forward to the feast to be held that day in honor of the
dead crab, to which he had been invited. He changed his dress and
set out solemnly to visit the young crab.

He found all the members of the crab's family and his relatives
waiting to receive and welcome him. As soon as the bows of meeting
were over they led him to a hall. Here the young chief mourner came
to receive him. Expressions of condolence and thanks were exchanged
between them, and then they all sat down to a luxurious feast and
entertained the monkey as the guest of honor.

The feast over, he was next invited to the tea-ceremony room to
drink a cup of tea. When the young crab had conducted the monkey to
the tearoom he left him and retired. Time passed and still he did
not return. At last the monkey became impatient. He said to himself:

"This tea ceremony is always a very slow affair. I am tired of
waiting so long. I am very thirsty after drinking so much sake at
the dinner!"

He then approached the charcoal fire-place and began to pour out
some hot water from the kettle boiling there, when something burst
out from the ashes with a great pop and hit the monkey right in the
neck. It was the chestnut, one of the crab's friends, who had hidden
himself in the fireplace. The monkey, taken by surprise, jumped
backward, and then started to run out of the room.

The bee, who was hiding outside the screens, now flew out and stung
him on the cheek. The monkey was in great pain, his neck was burned
by the chestnut and his face badly stung by the bee, but he ran on
screaming and chattering with rage.

Now the stone mortar had hidden himself with several other stones on
the top of the crab's gate, and as the monkey ran underneath, the
mortar and all fell down on the top of the monkey's head. Was it
possible for the monkey to bear the weight of the mortar falling on
him from the top of the gate? He lay crushed and in great pain,
quite unable to get up. As he lay there helpless the young crab came
up, and, holding his great claw scissors over the monkey, he said:

"Do you now remember that you murdered my father?"

"Then you--are--my--enemy?" gasped the monkey brokenly.

"Of course," said the young crab.

"It--was--your--father's--fault--not--mine!" gasped the unrepentant
monkey.

"Can you still lie? I will soon put an end to your breath!" and with
that he cut off the monkey's head with his pitcher claws. Thus the
wicked monkey met his well-merited punishment, and the young crab
avenged his father's death.

This is the end of the story of the monkey, the crab, and the
persimmon-seed.

[Goblin King]

Okaaay.
That's not one I'm going to be reading to children in a hurry.

[DAT500]

Aces. All children must be immersed in darkness and blood justice! ;]

[Goblin King]

;D We should set up a baby-sitting circle.

[lollipop]

That was a little scary...
*makes ooh-err face*

How about THE MIRROR OF MATSUYAMA?

[Goblin King]

Okay, let's see.

I hope this one is happier.

*unravels scroll*

[Goblin King]

THE MIRROR OF MATSUYAMA

A STORY OF OLD JAPAN.


Long years ago in old Japan there lived in the Province of Echigo, a
very remote part of Japan even in these days, a man and his wife.
When this story begins they had been married for some years and were
blessed with one little daughter. She was the joy and pride of both
their lives, and in her they stored an endless source of happiness
for their old age.

What golden letter days in their memory were these that had marked
her growing up from babyhood; the visit to the temple when she was
just thirty days old, her proud mother carrying her, robed in
ceremonial kimono, to be put under the patronage of the family's
household god; then her first dolls festival, when her parents gave
her a set of dolls' and their miniature belongings, to be added to
as year succeeded year; and perhaps the most important occasion of
all, on her third birthday, when her first OBI (broad brocade sash)
of scarlet and gold was tied round her small waist, a sign that she
had crossed the threshold of girlhood and left infancy behind. Now
that she was seven years of age, and had learned to talk and to wait
upon her parents in those several little ways so dear to the hearts
of fond parents, their cup of happiness seemed full. There could not
be found in the whole of the Island Empire a happier little family.

One day there was much excitement in the home, for the father had
been suddenly summoned to the capital on business. In these days of
railways and jinrickshas and other rapid modes of traveling, it is
difficult to realize what such a journey as that from Matsuyama to
Kyoto meant. The roads were rough and bad, and ordinary people had
to walk every step of the way, whether the distance were one hundred
or several hundred miles. Indeed, in those days it was as great an
undertaking to go up to the capital as it is for a Japanese to make
a voyage to Europe now.

So the wife was very anxious while she helped her husband get ready
for the long journey, knowing what an arduous task lay before him.
Vainly she wished that she could accompany him, but the distance was
too great for the mother and child to go, and besides that, it was
the wife's duty to take care of the home.

All was ready at last, and the husband stood in the porch with his
little family round him.

"Do not be anxious, I will come back soon," said the man. "While I
am away take care of everything, and especially of our little
daughter."

"Yes. we shall be all right--but you--you must take care of yourself
and delay not a day in coming back to us," said the wife, while the
tears fell like rain from her eyes.

The little girl was the only one to smile, for she was ignorant of
the sorrow of parting, and did not know that going to the capital
was at all different from walking to the next village, which her
father did very often. She ran to his side, and caught hold of his
long sleeve to keep him a moment.

"Father, I will be very good while I am waiting for you to come
back, so please bring me a present."

As the father turned to take a last look at his weeping wife and
smiling, eager child, he felt as if some one were pulling him back
by the hair, so hard was it for him to leave them behind, for they
had never been separated before. But he knew that he must go, for
the call was imperative. With a great effort he ceased to think, and
resolutely turning away he went quickly down the little garden and
out through the gate. His wife, catching up the child in her arms,
ran as far as the gate, and watched him as he went down the road
between the pines till he was lost in the haze of the distance and
all she could see was his quaint peaked hat, and at last that
vanished too.

"Now father has gone, you and I must take care of everything till he
comes back," said the mother, as she made her way back to the house.

"Yes, I will be very good," said the child, nodding her head, "and
when father comes home please tell him how good I have been, and
then perhaps he will give me a present."

"Father is sure to bring you something that you want very much. I
know, for I asked him to bring you a doll. You must think of father
every day, and pray for a safe journey till he comes back."

"O, yes, when he comes home again how happy I shall be," said the
child, clapping her hands, and her face growing bright with joy at
the glad thought. It seemed to the mother as she looked at the
child's face that her love for her grew deeper and deeper.

Then she set to work to make the winter clothes for the three of
them. She set up her simple wooden spinning-wheel and spun the
thread before she began to weave the stuffs. In the intervals of her
work she directed the little girl's games and taught her to read the
old stories of her country. Thus did the wife find consolation in
work during the lonely days of her husband's absence. While the time
was thus slipping quickly by in the quiet home, the husband finished
his business and returned.

It would have been difficult for any one who did not know the man
well to recognize him. He had traveled day after day, exposed to all
weathers, for about a month altogether, and was sunburnt to bronze,
but his fond wife and child knew him at a glance, and flew to meet
him from either side, each catching hold of one of his sleeves in
their eager greeting. Both the man and his wife rejoiced to find
each other well. It seemed a very long time to all till--the mother
and child helping--his straw sandals were untied, his large umbrella
hat taken off, and he was again in their midst in the old familiar
sitting-room that had been so empty while he was away.

As soon as they had sat down on the white mats, the father opened a
bamboo basket that he had brought in with him, and took out a
beautiful doll and a lacquer box full of cakes.

"Here," he said to the little girl, "is a present for you. It is a
prize for taking care of mother and the house so well while I was
away."

"Thank you," said the child, as she bowed her head to the ground,
and then put out her hand just like a little maple leaf with its
eager wide-spread fingers to take the doll and the box, both of
which, coming from the capital, were prettier than anything she had
ever seen. No words can tell how delighted the little girl was--her
face seemed as if it would melt with joy, and she had no eyes and no
thought for anything else.

Again the husband dived into the basket, and brought out this time a
square wooden box, carefully tied up with red and white string, and
handing it to his wife, said:

"And this is for you."

The wife took the box, and opening it carefully took out a metal
disk with a handle attached. One side was bright and shining like a
crystal, and the other was covered with raised figures of pine-trees
and storks, which had been carved out of its smooth surface in
lifelike reality. Never had she seen such a thing in her life, for
she had been born and bred in the rural province of Echigo. She
gazed into the shining disk, and looking up with surprise and wonder
pictured on her face, she said:

"I see somebody looking at me in this round thing! What is it that
you have given me "

The husband laughed and said:

"Why, it is your own face that you see. What I have brought you is
called a mirror, and whoever looks into its clear surface can see
their own form reflected there. Although there are none to be found
in this out of the way place, yet they have been in use in the
capital from the most ancient times. There the mirror is considered
a very necessary requisite for a woman to possess. There is an old
proverb that 'As the sword is the soul of a samurai, so is the
mirror the soul of a woman,' and according to popular tradition, a
woman's mirror is an index to her own heart--if she keeps it bright
and clear, so is her heart pure and good. It is also one of the
treasures that form the insignia of the Emperor. So you must lay
great store by your mirror, and use it carefully."

The wife listened to all her husband told her, and was pleased at
learning so much that was new to her. She was still more pleased at
the precious gift--his token of remembrance while he had been away.

"If the mirror represents my soul, I shall certainly treasure it as
a valuable possession, and never will I use it carelessly." Saying
so, she lifted it as high as her forehead, in grateful
acknowledgment of the gift, and then shut it up in its box and put
it away.

The wife saw that her husband was very tired, and set about serving
the evening meal and making everything as comfortable as she could
for him. It seemed to the little family as if they had not known
what true happiness was before, so glad were they to be together
again, and this evening the father had much to tell of his journey
and of all he had seen at the great capital.

(continued ...)

[Goblin King]

(The Mirror continued ...)


Time passed away in the peaceful home, and the parents saw their
fondest hopes realized as their daughter grew from childhood into a
beautiful girl of sixteen. As a gem of priceless value is held in
its proud owner's hand, so had they reared her with unceasing love
and care: and now their pains were more than doubly rewarded. What a
comfort she was to her mother as she went about the house taking her
part in the housekeeping, and how proud her father was of her, for
she daily reminded him of her mother when he had first married her.

But, alas! in this world nothing lasts forever. Even the moon is not
always perfect in shape, but loses its roundness with time, and
flowers bloom and then fade. So at last the happiness of this family
was broken up by a great sorrow. The good and gentle wife and mother
was one day taken ill.

In the first days of her illness the father and daughter thought
that it was only a cold, and were not particularly anxious. But the
days went by and still the mother did not get better; she only grew
worse, and the doctor was puzzled, for in spite of all he did the
poor woman grew weaker day by day. The father and daughter were
stricken with grief, and day or night the girl never left her
mother's side. But in spite of all their efforts the woman's life
was not to be saved.

One day as the girl sat near her mother's bed, trying to hide with a
cheery smile the gnawing trouble at her heart, the mother roused
herself and taking her daughter's hand, gazed earnestly and lovingly
into her eyes. Her breath was labored and she spoke with difficulty:

"My daughter. I am sure that nothing can save me now. When I am
dead, promise me to take care of your dear father and to try to be a
good and dutiful woman."

"Oh, mother," said the girl as the tears rushed to her eyes, "you
must not say such things. All you have to do is to make haste and
get well--that will bring the greatest happiness to father and
myself."

"Yes, I know, and it is a comfort to me in my last days to know how
greatly you long for me to get better, but it is not to be. Do not
look so sorrowful, for it was so ordained in my previous state of
existence that I should die in this life just at this time; knowing
this, I am quite resigned to my fate. And now I have something to
give you whereby to remember me when I am gone."

Putting her hand out, she took from the side of the pillow a square
wooden box tied up with a silken cord and tassels. Undoing this very
carefully, she took out of the box the mirror that her husband had
given her years ago.

"When you were still a little child your father went up to the
capital and brought me back as a present this treasure; it is called
a mirror. This I give you before I die. If, after I have ceased to
be in this life, you are lonely and long to see me sometimes, then
take out this mirror and in the clear and shining surface you will
always see me--so will you be able to meet with me often and tell me
all your heart; and though I shall not be able to speak, I shall
understand and sympathize with you, whatever may happen to you in
the future." With these words the dying woman handed the mirror to
her daughter.

The mind of the good mother seemed to be now at rest, and sinking
back without another word her spirit passed quietly away that day.

The bereaved father and daughter were wild with grief, and they
abandoned themselves to their bitter sorrow. They felt it to be
impossible to take leave of the loved woman who till now had filled
their whole lives and to commit her body to the earth. But this
frantic burst of grief passed, and then they took possession of
their own hearts again, crushed though they were in resignation. In
spite of this the daughter's life seemed to her desolate. Her love
for her dead mother did not grow less with time, and so keen was her
remembrance, that everything in daily life, even the falling of the
rain and the blowing of the wind, reminded her of her mother's death
and of all that they had loved and shared together. One day when her
father was out, and she was fulfilling her household duties alone,
her loneliness and sorrow seemed more than she could bear. She threw
herself down in her mother's room and wept as if her heart would
break. Poor child, she longed just for one glimpse of the loved
face, one sound of the voice calling her pet name, or for one
moment's forgetfulness of the aching void in her heart. Suddenly she
sat up. Her mother's last words had rung through her memory hitherto
dulled by grief.

"Oh! my mother told me when she gave me the mirror as a parting
gift, that whenever I looked into it I should be able to meet her--
to see her. I had nearly forgotten her last words--how stupid I am;
I will get the mirror now and see if it can possibly be true!"

She dried her eyes quickly, and going to the cupboard took out the
box that contained the mirror, her heart beating with expectation as
she lifted the mirror out and gazed into its smooth face. Behold,
her mother's words were true! In the round mirror before her she saw
her mother's face; but, oh, the joyful surprise! It was not her
mother thin and wasted by illness, but the young and beautiful woman
as she remembered her far back in the days of her own earliest
childhood. It seemed to the girl that the face in the mirror must
soon speak, almost that she heard the voice of her mother telling
her again to grow up a good woman and a dutiful daughter, so
earnestly did the eyes in the mirror look back into her own.

"It is certainly my mother's soul that I see. She knows how
miserable I am without her and she has come to comfort me. Whenever
I long to see her she will meet me here; how grateful I ought to
be!"

And from this time the weight of sorrow was greatly lightened for
her young heart. Every morning, to gather strength for the day's
duties before her, and every evening, for consolation before she lay
down to rest, did the young girl take out the mirror and gaze at the
reflection which in the simplicity of her innocent heart she
believed to be her mother's soul. Daily she grew in the likeness of
her dead mother's character, and was gentle and kind to all, and a
dutiful daughter to her father.

A year spent in mourning had thus passed away in the little
household, when, by the advice of his relations, the man married
again, and the daughter now found herself under the authority of a
step-mother. It was a trying position; but her days spent in the
recollection of her own beloved mother, and of trying to be what
that mother would wish her to be, had made the young girl docile and
patient, and she now determined to be filial and dutiful to her
father's wife, in all respects. Everything went on apparently
smoothly in the family for some time under the new regime; there
were no winds or waves of discord to ruffle the surface of every-day
life, and the father was content.

But it is a woman's danger to be petty and mean, and step-mothers
are proverbial all the world over, and this one's heart was not as
her first smiles were. As the days and weeks grew into months, the
step-mother began to treat the motherless girl unkindly and to try
and come between the father and child.

Sometimes she went to her husband and complained of her step-
daughter's behavior, but the father knowing that this was to be
expected, took no notice of her ill-natured complaints. Instead of
lessening his affection for his daughter, as the woman desired, her
grumblings only made him think of her the more. The woman soon saw
that he began to show more concern for his lonely child than before.
This did not please her at all, and she began to turn over in her
mind how she could, by some means or other, drive her step-child out
of the house. So crooked did the woman's heart become.

She watched the girl carefully, and one day peeping into her room in
the early morning, she thought she discovered a grave enough sin of
which to accuse the child to her father. The woman herself was a
little frightened too at what she had seen.

So she went at once to her husband, and wiping away some false tears
she said in a sad voice:

"Please give me permission to leave you today."

The man was completely taken by surprise at the suddenness of her
request, and wondered whatever was the matter.

"Do you find it so disagreeable," he asked, "in my house, that you
can stay no longer?"

"No! no! it has nothing to do with you--even in my dreams I have
never thought that I wished to leave your side; but if I go on
living here I am in danger of losing my life, so I think it best for
all concerned that you should allow me to go home!"

And the woman began to weep afresh. Her husband, distressed to see
her so unhappy, and thinking that he could not have heard aright,
said:

"Tell me what you mean! How is your life in danger here?"

"I will tell you since you ask me. Your daughter dislikes me as her
step-mother. For some time past she has shut herself up in her room
morning and evening, and looking in as I pass by, I am convinced
that she has made an image of me and is trying to kill me by magic
art, cursing me daily. It is not safe for me to stay here, such
being the case; indeed, indeed, I must go away, we cannot live under
the same roof any more."

The husband listened to the dreadful tale, but he could not believe
his gentle daughter guilty of such an evil act. He knew that by
popular superstition people believed that one person could cause the
gradual death of another by making an image of the hated one and
cursing it daily; but where had his young daughter learned such
knowledge?--the thing was impossible. Yet he remembered having
noticed that his daughter stayed much in her room of late and kept
herself away from every one, even when visitors came to the house.
Putting this fact together with his wife's alarm, he thought that
there might be something to account for the strange story.

His heart was torn between doubting his wife and trusting his child,
and he knew not what to do. He decided to go at once to his daughter
and try to find out the truth. Comforting his wife and assuring her
that her fears were groundless, he glided quietly to his daughter's
room.

The girl had for a long time past been very unhappy. She had tried
by amiability and obedience to show her goodwill and to mollify the
new wife, and to break down that wall of prejudice and
misunderstanding that she knew generally stood between step-parents
and their step-children. But she soon found that her efforts were in
vain. The step-mother never trusted her, and seemed to misinterpret
all her actions, and the poor child knew very well that she often
carried unkind and untrue tales to her father. She could not help
comparing her present unhappy condition with the time when her own
mother was alive only a little more than a year ago--so great a
change in this short time! Morning and evening she wept over the
remembrance. Whenever she could she went to her room, and sliding
the screens to, took out the mirror and gazed, as she thought, at
her mother's face. It was the only comfort that she had in these
wretched days.

Her father found her occupied in this way. Pushing aside the fusama,
he saw her bending over something or other very intently. Looking
over her shoulder, to see who was entering her room, the girl was
surprised to see her father, for he generally sent for her when he
wished to speak to her. She was also confused at being found looking
at the mirror, for she had never told any one of her mother's last
promise, but had kept it as the sacred secret of her heart. So
before turning to her father she slipped the mirror into her long
sleeve. Her father noting her confusion, and her act of hiding
something, said in a severe manner:

"Daughter, what are you doing here? And what is that that you have
hidden in your sleeve?"

The girl was frightened by her father's severity. Never had he
spoken to her in such a tone. Her confusion changed to apprehension,
her color from scarlet to white. She sat dumb and shamefaced, unable
to reply.

Appearances were certainly against her; the young girl looked
guilty, and the father thinking that perhaps after all what his wife
had told him was true, spoke angrily:

"Then, is it really true that you are daily cursing your step-mother
and praying for her death? Have you forgotten what I told you, that
although she is your step-mother you must he obedient and loyal to
her? What evil spirit has taken possession of your heart that you
should be so wicked? You have certainly changed, my daughter! What
has made you so disobedient and unfaithful?"

And the father's eyes filled with sudden tears to think that he
should have to upbraid his daughter in this way.

She on her part did not know what he meant, for she had never heard
of the superstition that by praying over an image it is possible to
cause the death of a hated person. But she saw that she must speak
and clear herself somehow. She loved her father dearly, and could
not bear the idea of his anger. She put out her hand on his knee
deprecatingly:

"Father! father! do not say such dreadful things to me. I am still
your obedient child. Indeed, I am. However stupid I may be, I should
never be able to curse any one who belonged to you, much less pray
for the death of one you love. Surely some one has been telling you
lies, and you are dazed, and you know not what you say--or some evil
spirit has taken possession of YOUR heart. As for me I do not know--
no, not so much as a dew-drop, of the evil thing of which you accuse
me."

But the father remembered that she had hidden something away when he
first entered the room, and even this earnest protest did not
satisfy him. He wished to clear up his doubts once for all.

"Then why are you always alone in your room these days? And tell me
what is that that you have hidden in your sleeve--show it to me at
once."

Then the daughter, though shy of confessing how she had cherished
her mother's memory, saw that she must tell her father all in order
to clear herself. So she slipped the mirror out from her long sleeve
and laid it before him.

"This," she said, "is what you saw me looking at just now."

"Why," he said in great surprise." this is the mirror that I brought
as a gift to your mother when I went up to the capital many years
ago! And so you have kept it all this time? Now, why do you spend so
much of your time before this mirror?"

Then she told him of her mother's last words, and of how she had
promised to meet her child whenever she looked into the glass. But
still the father could not understand the simplicity of his
daughter's character in not knowing that what she saw reflected in
the mirror was in reality her own face, and not that of her mother.

"What do you mean?" he asked. "I do not understand how you can meet
the soul of your lost mother by looking in this mirror?"

"It is indeed true," said the girl: "and if you don't believe what I
say, look for yourself," and she placed the mirror before her.
There, looking back from the smooth metal disk, was her own sweet
face. She pointed to the reflection seriously:

"Do you doubt me still?" she asked earnestly, looking up into his
face.

With an exclamation of sudden understanding the father smote his two
hands together.

"How stupid I am! At last I understand. Your face is as like your
mother's as the two sides of a melon--thus you have looked at the
reflection of your face ail this time, thinking that you were
brought face to face with your lost mother! You are truly a faithful
child. It seems at first a stupid thing to have done, but it is not
really so, It shows how deep has been your filialpiety, and how
innocent your heart. Living in constant remembrance of your lost
mother has helped you to grow like her in character. How clever it
was of her to tell you to do this. I admire and respect you, my
daughter, and I am ashamed to think that for one instant I believed
your suspicious step-mother's story and suspected you of evil, and
came with the intention of scolding you severely, while all this
time you have been so true and good. Before you I have no
countenance left, and I beg you to forgive me."

And here the father wept. He thought of how lonely the poor girl
must have been, and of all that she must have suffered under her
step-mother's treatment. His daughter steadfastly keeping her faith
and simplicity in the midst of such adverse circumstances--bearing
all her troubles with so much patience and amiability--made him
compare her to the lotus which rears its blossom of dazzling beauty
out of the slime and mud of the moats and ponds, fitting emblem of a
heart which keeps itself unsullied while passing through the world.

The step-mother, anxious to know what would happen, had all this
while been standing outside the room. She had grown interested, and
had gradually pushed the sliding screen back till she could see all
that went on. At this moment she suddenly entered the room, and
dropping to the mats, she bowed her head over her outspread hands
before her step-daughter.

"I am ashamed! I am ashamed!" she exclaimed in broken tones. "I did
not know what n filial child you were. Through no fault of yours,
but with a step-mother's jealous heart, I have disliked you all the
time. Hating you so much myself, it was but natural that I should
think you reciprocated the feeling, and thus when I saw you retire
so often to your room I followed you, and when I saw you gaze daily
into the mirror for long intervals, I concluded that you had found
out how I disliked you, and that you were out of revenge trying to
take my life by magic art. As long as I live I shall never forget
the wrong I have done you in so misjudging you, and in causing your
father to suspect you. From this day I throw away my old and wicked
heart, and in its place I put a new one, clean and full of
repentance. I shall think of you as a child that I have borne
myself. I shall love and cherish you with all my heart, and thus try
to make up for all the unhappiness I have caused you. Therefore,
please throw into the water all that has gone before, and give me, I
beg of you, some of the filial love that you have hitherto given to
your own lost mother."

Thus did the unkind step-mother humble herself and ask forgiveness
of the girl she had so wronged.

Such was the sweetness of the girl's disposition that she willingly
forgave her step-mother, and never bore a moment's resentment or
malice towards her afterwards. The father saw by his wife's face
that she was truly sorry for the past, and was greatly relieved to
see the terrible misunderstanding wiped out of remembrance by both
the wrong-doer and the wronged.

From this time on, the three lived together as happily as fish in
water. No such trouble ever darkened the home again, and the young
girl gradually forgot that year of unhappiness in the tender love
and care that her step-mother now bestowed on her. Her patience and
goodness were rewarded at last.

[lollipop]

Yay! Happy ending! I would have thought the girl would have been more shocked when her father told her the mirror wasn't really her mother though.

[Goblin King]

She seems a little dim. I was impressed by the word "filialpiety"

[lollipop]

Oh yeah, I remember being impressed by that too! ;D ;D

*peruses list of available scroll-stories*

[Goblin King]

The goblin one looks good

[lollipop]

Ooh ok, I was thinking about that the last two times!!!
THE GOBLIN OF ADACHIGAHARA

[Goblin King]

I've only read the start ... heh heh Nice to hear about a relative.

Okay.

*clears throat*

[lollipop]

Uh oh. I can see me not getting any work done. I better go now and read this later!

[Goblin King]

That's good because I think I've lost a scroll somewhere. I bet Hobgob is sitting on it!

[Goblin King]

It was in a pot marked "SKARY STOREES -DUNT REED" - how strange.

Get ready to be transported to Adachigahara...


THE GOBLIN OF ADACHIGAHARA.


Long, long ago there was a large plain called Adachigahara, in the
province of Mutsu in Japan. This place was said to be haunted by a
cannibal goblin who took the form of an old woman. From time to time
many travelers disappeared and were never heard of more, and the old
women round the charcoal braziers in the evenings, and the girls
washing the household rice at the wells in the mornings, whispered
dreadful stories of how the missing folk had been lured to the
goblin's cottage and devoured, for the goblin lived only on human
flesh. No one dared to venture near the haunted spot after sunset,
and all those who could, avoided it in the daytime, and travelers
were warned of the dreaded place.

One day as the sun was setting, a priest came to the plain. He was a
belated traveler, and his robe showed that he was a Buddhist pilgrim
walking from shrine to shrine to pray for some blessing or to crave
for forgiveness of sins. He had apparently lost his way, and as it
was late he met no one who could show him the road or warn him of
the haunted spot.

He had walked the whole day and was now tired and hungry, and the
evenings were chilly, for it was late autumn, and he began to be
very anxious to find some house where he could obtain a night's
lodging. He found himself lost in the midst of the large plain, and
looked about in vain for some sign of human habitation.

At last, after wandering about for some hours, he saw a clump of
trees in the distance, and through the trees he caught sight of the
glimmer of a single ray of light. He exclaimed with joy:

"Oh. surely that is some cottage where I can get a night's lodging!"

Keeping the light before his eyes he dragged his weary, aching feet
as quickly as he could towards the spot, and soon came to a
miserable-looking little cottage. As he drew near he saw that it was
in a tumble-down condition, the bamboo fence was broken and weeds
and grass pushed their way through the gaps. The paper screens which
serve as windows and doors in Japan were full of holes, and the
posts of the house were bent with age and seemed scarcely able to
support the old thatched roof. The hut was open, and by the light of
an old lantern an old woman sat industriously spinning.

The pilgrim called to her across the bamboo fence and said:

"O Baa San (old woman), good evening! I am a traveler! Please excuse
me, but I have lost my way and do not know what to do, for I have
nowhere to rest to-night. I beg you to be good enough to let me
spend the night under your roof."

The old woman as soon as she heard herself spoken to stopped
spinning, rose from her seat and approached the intruder.

"I am very sorry for you. You must indeed be distressed to have lost
your way in such a lonely spot so late at night. Unfortunately I
cannot put you up, for I have no bed to offer you, and no
accommodation whatsoever for a guest in this poor place!"

"Oh, that does not matter," said the priest; "all I want is a
shelter under some roof for the night, and if you will be good
enough just to let me lie on the kitchen floor I shall be grateful.
I am too tired to walk further to-night, so I hope you will not
refuse me, otherwise I shall have to sleep out on the cold plain."
And in this way he pressed the old woman to let him stay.

She seemed very reluctant, but at last she said:

"Very well, I will let you stay here. I can offer you a very poor
welcome only, but come in now and I will make a fire, for the night
is cold."

The pilgrim was only too glad to do as he was told. He took off his
sandals and entered the hut. The old woman then brought some sticks
of wood and lit the fire, and bade her guest draw near and warm
himself.

"You must be hungry after your long tramp," said the old woman. "I
will go and cook some supper for you." She then went to the kitchen
to cook some rice.

After the priest had finished his supper the old woman sat down by
the fire-place, and they talked together for a long time. The
pilgrim thought to himself that he had been very lucky to come
across such a kind, hospitable old woman. At last the wood gave out,
and as the fire died slowly down he began to shiver with cold just
as he had done when he arrived.

"I see you are cold," said the old woman; "I will go out and gather
some wood, for we have used it all. You must stay and take care of
the house while I am gone."

"No, no," said the pilgrim, "let me go instead, for you are old, and
I cannot think of letting you go out to get wood for me this cold
night!"

The old woman shook her head and said:

"You must stay quietly here, for you are my guest." Then she left
him and went out.

In a minute she came back and said:

"You must sit where you are and not move, and whatever happens don't
go near or look into the inner room. Now mind what I tell you!"

"If you tell me not to go near the back room, of course I won't,"
said the priest, rather bewildered.

The old woman then went out again, and the priest was left alone.
The fire had died out, and the only light in the hut was that of a
dim lantern. For the first time that night he began to feel that he
was in a weird place, and the old woman's words, "Whatever you do
don't peep into the back room," aroused his curiosity and his fear.

What hidden thing could be in that room that she did not wish him to
see? For some time the remembrance of his promise to the old woman
kept him still, but at last he could no longer resist his curiosity
to peep into the forbidden place.

He got up and began to move slowly towards the back room. Then the
thought that the old woman would be very angry with him if he
disobeyed her made him come back to his place by the fireside.

As the minutes went slowly by and the old woman did not return, he
began to feel more and more frightened, and to wonder what dreadful
secret was in the room behind him. He must find out.

"She will not know that I have looked unless I tell her. I will just
have a peep before she comes back," said the man to himself.

With these words he got up on his feet (for he had been sitting all
this time in Japanese fashion with his feet under him) and
stealthily crept towards the forbidden spot. With trembling hands he
pushed back the sliding door and looked in. What he saw froze the
blood in his veins. The room was full of dead men's bones and the
walls were splashed and the floor was covered with human blood. In
one corner skull upon skull rose to the ceiling, in another was a
heap of arm bones, in another a heap of leg bones. The sickening
smell made him faint. He fell backwards with horror, and for some
time lay in a heap with fright on the floor, a pitiful sight. He
trembled all over and his teeth chattered, and he could hardly crawl
away from the dreadful spot.

"How horrible!" he cried out. "What awful den have I come to in my
travels? May Buddha help me or I am lost. Is it possible that that
kind old woman is really the cannibal goblin? When she comes back
she will show herself in her true character and eat me up at one
mouthful!"

With these words his strength came back to him and, snatching up his
hat and staff, he rushed out of the house as fast as his legs could
carry him. Out into the night he ran, his one thought to get as far
as he could from the goblin's haunt. He had not gone far when he
heard steps behind him and a voice crying: "Stop! stop!"

He ran on, redoubling his speed, pretending not to hear. As he ran
he heard the steps behind him come nearer and nearer, and at last he
recognized the old woman's voice which grew louder and louder as she
came nearer.

"Stop! stop, you wicked man, why did you look into the forbidden
room?"

The priest quite forgot how tired he was and his feet flew over the
ground faster than ever. Fear gave him strength, for he knew that if
the goblin caught him he would soon be one of her victims. With all
his heart he repeated the prayer to Buddha:

"Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida Butsu."

And after him rushed the dreadful old hag, her hair flying in the
wind, and her face changing with rage into the demon that she was.
In her hand she carried a large blood-stained knife, and she still
shrieked after him, "Stop! stop!"

At last, when the priest felt he could run no more, the dawn broke,
and with the darkness of night the goblin vanished and he was safe.
The priest now knew that he had met the Goblin of Adachigahara, the
story of whom he had often heard but never believed to be true. He
felt that he owed his wonderful escape to the protection of Buddha
to whom he had prayed for help, so he took out his rosary and bowing
his head as the sun rose he said his prayers and made his
thanksgiving earnestly. He then set forward for another part of the
country, only too glad to leave the haunted plain behind him.

[lollipop]

I was all set for a gruesome ending there!

[lollipop]

Let's keep in theme with THE OGRE OF RASHOMON....
*sits back expectantly*

[Goblin King]

Sorry I was still catching up on the shock of him discovering the room (you do know that I don't read these before I post them ;D ) The writer again has a fascinating turn of phrase: "belated traveller", "goblin's haunt". I wonder if the ending was rewritten at some point? It feels like Grimm's Bluebeard. If I was giving a moral slant on it I would make it so that a guest who invites himself would have to stay all night and then the curse of the old women's cannibalism and goblin form would be lifted, ending in tears of happiness. All she needs if love and acceptance *eviscerate, chomp, chomp* >;>

Ogre's eh? I bet they are hungry too.

[lollipop]

Yeah, I thought there'd be more of a reason there... Or at least, that if he did as he was told and didn't look in the room it would work out better for him. Like that Greek guy who went to the underworld to ask Hades for his (dead) wife back, and he was told he could, but only if he went all the way back through the underworld without looking back. At the last minute he did, and saw her, but because he'd looked, she got dragged back to the world of the dead again...

[Goblin King]

^^
Is it Orpheus and Persephone, right? There's a fine retelling of it in one of the Sandman graphic novels, which I recommend.

---

*Unravels next scroll ...*


THE OGRE OF RASHOMON.


Long, long ago in Kyoto, the people of the city were terrified by
accounts of a dreadful ogre, who, it was said, haunted the Gate of
Rashomon at twilight and seized whoever passed by. ...

*rolls scrolls back up*

Nope.
Far too scary for Lollipops. ;D

(Google image search on "Japanese Ogre" and "aka oni" )

[lollipop]

Might be Orpheus, don't think it was Persephone though. She was the one who was captured and ate the pomegranite (what's that, a cement version?! how do you really spell it?) seeds.

What are they?

__

WHAT??!

Abuse of storytelling power!!! Abuse of power!

[Thrin]

Twas Orpheus and Eurydice, she got bitten by a snake and died so he was all sad and went down to the underworld to get her back.

Persephone was queen of the underworld. Hades tricked her by giving her pomegranate seeds to eat and for every one she ate she had to stay in the underworld with him, when she was on earth everything grew and it was warm etc, hence the seasons.

I had greek mythology lessons in year 7 lol.

[lollipop]

Eurydice, of course. I remember when I was younger thinking she was called "yuri-dice" (as in the numbered cubes you play board games with).

He gave her loads of stuff to eat, but she only caved to the pomegranate. Ceres/Demeter (her ma) did the Orpheus thing in this one

[Goblin King]

Yeah, that's it, the dice girl.
What's the point of power if you can't abuse it? I mean it's like having kittens you can torture ...