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At breakfast the elder priest’s wife asked her husband,
“Have you heard the talk about the fire at Jimpei’s place
being caused by arson?”
Refilling a bowl of rice, the younger priest’s wife stopped her
hand and glanced at her husband.
The elder priest commented reprovingly, “So they’re already
making stories about that, are they? Better not listen to
that sort of talk.”
“Well I heard the women in the kitchen talking about it.”
“Must have been that woman Osame. She’s always full of
hot air—blasting away like a trumpet.”
The young wife bent her head forward and giggled.
“Arson, was it? Or an accident? Who’s to know? There are
times when it’s better not to know.”
The young priest looked up and surveyed his father’s face.
Then he resumed eating with his chopsticks as if nothing had
happened.
“Jimpei’s dead. His wife Oriki-san has gone crazy. And the
horse stable was completely burned down to the ground. What
happened to the horse?”
“I don’t really know, but it seems nothing happened to it.”
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4
Chewing on some grated daikon and making crisp sounds,
the young priest stayed out of the conversation.
“So it looks like one more from the old village is gone. Today’s
funeral—who’s going to lead the service?”
“I hear a distant relative’s coming. But he’s not from Amazoko,
so I doubt he’ll have much feeling for it.”
The head priest turned toward his son and spoke.
“You’re ready?”
“Yes. The ashes should be here by now. Things should be
mostly taken care of by noon.”
The elder priest’s wife still had something more to say.
“Have the police already . . ?”
“It’s already finished. They say there’s not going to be any
further investigation.”
“It seems his wife, Oriki-san, is in rather a bad way and she’s
gotten quite out of hand. I hear they had to take her to some
mental hospital near the seaside. Apparently she made quite a
scene about going.”
“Under the circumstances I don’t suppose anyone could
have taken care of a person like that. I guess it couldn’t be
helped.”
“I suppose so.”
In saying this she glanced hesitantly at Masahiko.
“I suppose she must have been taken in by those dog spirits.
The whole neighborhood is all worked up about it.”
“Still going on about that sort of thing? How many years have
you been here at this temple now? It goes against our doctrine.”
“Well it may not go along with the doctrine, but the people
in the village don’t live by the doctrine. They say Oriki-san’s
been growling and crawling about on all fours. They say she’s
bitten people too.”
“Oh come on, stop spreading that nonsense will you. It looks
like you’ve been caught up in those delusions too. Dog spirits
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or gods, and in this day and age—it’s a relic from the past century.
And now it’s gotten to you too.”
“For me, doctrines have always been difficult. Actually the
dog spirits seem closer to me.”
The younger couple and Masahiko glanced at each other.
They couldn’t help smiling at the utterly languid tone of the
elder wife in speaking of such grave matters.
“You know, we can find models for our life right in front of
us. Isn’t this a perfect example of the saying, one hundred sermons
to no avail.”
Again the younger couple laughed between themselves as
the elder couple continued.
“There were quite a few rumors about Jimpei getting rich
from that dam project.”
“A speculator, a swindler even—there are always such people
around.”
“Yes, he certainly was a swindler.”
She started to say this, but appearing to have concerns
about Masahiko, she glanced up at her son. Then, perhaps deciding
not to worry about it, she continued right away.
“Well, that Jimpei fellow, he came here and talked about it.
‘When that dam comes in,’ he said, ‘this area’s going to be a real
hot spot for tourism. And when that happens the area around
your temple is also going to be prime property, you know. They
say all kinds of investment money from the big cities will pour
in. And with that extra land of yours, you’re in a great position
to sell it off for putting up a hotel. And if a hotel comes in, it’ll
bring in plenty of high-class folks from the cities. But if there
get to be too many who want to sell the prices will collapse, so
now’s the time to get into it. Why don’t you just leave it to me
. . .’ That was the way he talked when he came here.”
“I can imagine he’d talk of such things, and he must have
done lots more. He was an odd sort of character for these
211
parts.” For some reason the old priest, who had been speaking
calmly, suddenly laughed so much his body swayed forward.
“Putting up a disreputable hotel like that on the water’s
edge, it ruined the reputation of Amazoko. It looks like we’ve
always had that kind of hotel.”
“If it had been the old village there would have been no such
building.”
“As it turned out, even if he did get rich he ended up as ashes.”
“Well, he was hardly a model citizen but he was one of the
Amazoko people and now it looks like one more household is
gone.”
“It’s not something we can talk about very openly, but it
seems he took quite a fancy for Sayuri—I hear she was having
trouble dealing with it.”
The young priest cast an accusing glance at his mother for
speaking in such a way.
Having finished eating, Masahiko was wondering when he
should get up from the breakfast table. When the priest’s wife’s
said that this was something that couldn’t be talked about
openly, he took it as a cue to get up from the table quietly.
The son, sipping his tea, scowled at his mother and then
spoke in a voice tinged with the hint of a smile.
“You must excuse our family for such dull talk, Masahiko-san.”
Rising part-way, the whole family busied itself with refilling
the teapot and putting out oranges, trying to call their young
guest back.
“Such boring talk, as usual.”
It seemed like quite a frank breakfast discussion and so, deciding
to sit down again, Masahiko spoke out decisively.
“There’s something I need to think over. I want to go and
take another look at that dam.”
The elder priest’s wife spoke in an understanding voice.
“The dam . . . well yes, I suppose. That’s where your old family
place is, beneath the water now.”
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“Today Jimpei’s funeral will be held here. I suppose if you
were here you might feel a little uneasy so shall I go and get
some rice balls for you to take with you in a bento lunch box?”
The younger wife looked at her mother-in-law as she spoke.
Actually, there was no bento shop nearby.
The elder wife added, facing her daughter-in-law and
Masahiko, “The offerings of food for the funeral have already
been taken care of and the women are all here and preparing
rice balls. Just go ahead and take some. When you eat them
you’ll be making an offering for Jimpei.”
As he climbed the mountain path Masahiko’s feelings were
quite different from when he first had first come. Walking
among the fallen leaves, his entire body was bathed in the
spirit of the mountains. When he stood still and listened carefully
he felt himself being called to, from the treetops above to
the ground beneath his feet, by the delicate presence of living
things. He felt as if the pores of his skin were acting as finely
tuned sense organs.
But then, the elder wife’s casual talk about the dog spirits,
and how they were connected with people dying and with
mental hospitals—somehow it seemed rather odd. He found it
interesting that she felt closer to the strange beliefs of the villagers
than to the religious doctrines of her husband’s temple.
No doubt these feelings had come to him through staying for
three days among these people of Amazoko who were so different
from those back in the city. The rustling sounds from
the woods made his heart beat strangely. It seemed that here
in this village was the most ancient layer of a presence that still
remained in the modern world.
I’ve been called back into the cycle of rebirth of the trees
and plants of the ancient undisturbed village of Amazoko—
such thoughts circled about in Masahiko’s mind. The smells
and feelings coming from the decaying leaves of the trees
213
throughout the mountains suggested an ideal image of the
abundance that lies in death. Were it not for that presence it
seemed there could be no way to imagine the world of colors
that appears when the mushrooms first lift their heads and the
grasses and trees first sprout.
In tending his potted plants his grandfather had often muttered,
“Unless you take care of them none of these different
kinds of plants will put out even a shoot.”
In general Masahiko had not been particularly attentive to
his grandfather’s words, but now, up in the mountains, those
old sayings came back to his ears unbidden.
The water level at the dam, which hadn’t changed from two
days ago, reflected all the surrounding mountains. He soon
recognized the spot where he had first met Ohina. The hut
with the reed sides and the bamboo grass roof he had helped
Ohina and her daughter Omomo build was still there. It made
an unexpectedly welcome sight. He noticed the big persimmon
tree on Utazaka Hill and remembered that it had marked the
entrance to the old village. This landmark persimmon tree still
remained, but the village of Amazoko it looked over had disappeared
into the depths of the waters about the dam. Hadn’t
he been told that when traveling musicians and performers
entered the village they played on their samisens and biwa as
they walked along the roadway by Moonshadow Bridge and
Utazaka Hill? If this were so then it seemed that all the songs
of those times, along with all the people who had listened to
them, must be sealed off in those waters too. Masahiko gazed
into the depths of the stagnating green water. Here and there
he could just barely make out the whittled-away shapes of the
remaining stumps of trees. The people who had lived in the
village before its flooding would have been able to tell just
whose garden plot it had been over there, and whose deserted
house it had been right here.
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A hundred years ago the French researcher Pelliot unearthed
from the deserts around Tonko the written scores for
some ancient Chinese flute music. It occurred to Masahiko
that if he could somehow raise the spirits of the ancient voices
of the songs from the village that lay in the waters he might be
able to create a similarly mysterious composition. Suddenly he
was reminded of the old word yusai that referred to a “sublime
ceremony.” The sunken village and its lost songs seemed to
evoke the spirit of yusai. He wondered if he might be able to
put this spirit into music.
He wondered where the stalactite cave of the fabled Lord
Guardian of the village—the one who could take on the form
of a snake—might be. Could the old guardian still be living in
the depths of the waters? He squinted his eyes. Softly, the
grasses began to murmur. For a while the breezes reflected the
sounds of the banks about the dam, but passing into the distant
fields of grass they gradually turned soft and quiet. As he
gazed at the mountains reflected in the water, it seemed as if
nothing had changed.
But then from behind the mountains Masahiko noticed the
distant Kyushu mountain range rising gradually on the water’s
surface, reflected in the retina of his mind. Silently the distant
mountains, as if banded with numerous silver-colored pleats,
seemed to slide down, spread out, and cover the nearer mountains
in the foreground. A colorless flame of water began to
flicker. Rising from the depths of the lake, a sound like the
drumming of the spirits of the earth became audible. It resounded
as if, according to some orderly set of rules, with
every beat it were urging on the stagnating dregs that lay at
the depths of the lake. But then great howls became audible,
rising from time to time from the cave at the bottom of the
lake. It seemed that it must all have been some sort of auditory
hallucination.
215
As the silver-colored mountains that had been sliding down
onto the nearby lake began to work their way slowly back up
into their original position, the alternating sounds of the drum
beats and the howling from the bottom of the lake rose up
from the taut surface of the water.
The words “birth of the first sounds” came into Masahiko’s
thoughts.
He wondered if it was right that he alone should be able to
hear and see these things. He also had a sense that the strings
of the biwa, on which he had been trying so hard during the
past month to make sounds, had somehow become connected
to the trees at the bottom of the lake. He felt as if these voices
of the earth, in passing through his body, had released the passions
of his emerging manhood. In the sky he saw Omomo
swimming above him, her hair streaming in the wind and her
body wrapped in that celadon-colored obi he’d seen in his
dream. While thinking how it really should have been Sayuri,
suddenly he heard a voice from behind.
“Masahiko-san, Masahiko-san.”
Omomo was standing above him on a large rock by the
shore. She was barefoot and dressed in a short indigo-colored
kimono. For a while she said nothing.
“So, it looks like this is your first time to visit this world.
What happened?”
“Well . . .”
“From behind it looked like you were a flame rising up from
the water.”
“I, well . . . just now . . .”
“You looked like you were going to be pulled into the water
so I called out to you.”
Being spoken to pulled him back to reality again. Hiking up
the hem of her kimono, Omomo walked into the water and
then, holding on to a stick from near the hut, wiped each leg.
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“Sorry to bother you. Looks like you were thinking about
something.”
He must have looked odd standing there. He couldn’t tell
her about just having seen a vision of that obi and seeing
Omomo and Sayuri on the surface of the water. If they had
been with Ohina it would have been easier to talk, since she
had taught him how to make the reed hut and had let him take
part in the O-bon offerings. But now, suddenly, he didn’t know
which way to turn. Awkwardly, he stepped on the grass and sat
down, leaning against a rock by the side of the hut.
“There are lots of things I’d like to learn. From you.”
“Masahiko-san, you want to learn from me?”
“Yes, from you and from your mother.”
“But why are you talking this way to me?”
Omomo spoke in a somewhat agitated tone of voice.
“I don’t know what to make of this. I’ve never been spoken
to so politely, so seriously like this.”
She spoke in a hushed voice. Without thinking, Masahiko
glanced sideways at her face. Omomo was sitting in a thicket
of grass with her sandals off, drying her toenails with the hem
of her indigo-blue kimono.
“Well, to tell the truth, I . . . just now, from the bottom of the
lake . . . I heard sounds.”
Omomo stopped wiping her feet and looked at Masahiko’s
face with great seriousness.
“That was the voice of the Lord Guardian of Amazoko, coming
from the bottom of the lake.”
“The Lord of Amazoko? You mean the one from Moonshadow
Bridge?”
“Yes. Probably he was coming up from the depths of the stalactite
cave.” Omomo drew in her breath and then asked in a
low voice, “And what sort of voice was it?” Her pupils glanced
downward.
217
“How can I describe it . . ? Well, it was the voice . . . of the
spirit of Amazoko.”
Omomo took a branch of mugwort from beside her,
snapped it off and glanced at its cut end.
“If it was the voice of a spirit . . . then I should have heard it
too.”
And then suddenly she assumed an attitude of reverence,
knees properly together, and held out the mugwort to
Masahiko.
“Smells good, doesn’t it? It’s a plant of the gods. It’s a sacred
plant that drives away bad spirits.”
Flustered, Masahiko sat up straight and pressed his nose to
the mugwort to smell it.
“Yes, it does smell good.”
And then suddenly he asked, “That song you sang the other
night. Could you sing it again? Would you sing it right here? I’ve
been thinking of it all along. You must sing it for me again.”
n
“The song from the other night? Ah . . .”
Omomo’s expression showed her surprise. She opened her
mouth as if to speak, but no words came out. Then she held
out the mugwort bunch, smelled it, and waved it back and
forth.
“This will ward off any bad spirits.”
This woman’s words and actions continued to surprise him.
Shaking the grass, she urged him with a serious expression,
“Why don’t you try it yourself. It’s the grass of the gods.”
A bit uneasy, he tried the same motion with the grass.
“What sort of bad sprits?”
“The bad sprits of the dam, and of the mountain gods. There
are still all sorts of them.”
“All sorts of them, still? . . . So does that mean you think I
brought some bad spirits with me too?”
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“What?”
All of a sudden, Omomo, who had just been so formal, bent
her head forward delicately, threw the bunch of mugwort toward
the water and then broke out into laughter. She found it
hard to stop.
“This is too much—you’re bringing me to tears.”
Omomo wiped her eyes with the blue edge of her sleeve,
tossed her hair back over her neck, stood up, and then took the
mugwort back from Masahiko.
“All right, I get it. Now I see. Maybe you did bring some bad
spirits with you from Tokyo.”
And then, with the motions of a Shinto priest bearing a sacred
staff, she waved some mugwort over Masahiko’s head.
“I thought something was strange. You’re so different from
us . . . maybe it’s because of those bad spirits from Tokyo.”
And in telling him it was all right she threw away the mugwort
and sat down in her former spot. Masahiko felt much
more at ease than before.
“There are lots of strange things I’m worried about.”
“Well if you’re worried about things, let me help get rid of
them for you.”
For the first time, Masahiko laughed.
“OK, then from now on I’ll ask you to take care of them for
me.”
“All right, then why don’t you become a member of the village.”
“Become a member of the village? I thought I already was
doing that.”
“Well, you’re not one yet.”
“Then what am I supposed to do to become a part of the village?
You have to tell me.”
“You’re still staying at the temple. You’re still a guest there.”
Masahiko was taken aback. Taking advantage of his greatgreat-grandfather’s
standing, he’d been staying at the temple
219
as a guest. Even though the old village had been lost to the
dam, the people from it considered him a guest from Tokyo.
“If this were the old days you’d have brought a couple bottles
of shochu liquor with you.”
“Well, I didn’t know about that, but if that’s all there is to it
I can take care of that.”
“I wouldn’t say that’s all there is to it. You’re from the old
Silk Estate, so there’s that biwa . . .”
Instinctively, he looked at her face. Her eyes sparkling like
rays of sun on water, Omomo returned Masahiko’s glance.
“That biwa, it was made of the mulberry tree from the old
estate, wasn’t it? If you play on it the voices of Amazoko will
come out again.”
“Really? You think I should try? Well . . . if you say so.”
“Everyone will be pleased. In the old days, right here on
Utazaka Hill . . .”
Her voice wavering a bit, Omomo fell silent. From the far
bank, what looked like a black wave of water birds was approaching;
they may have been ducks. If people should come
here to Utazaka Hill, would I play? What should I do? In Tokyo
I dreamed of writing a piece of music for Japanese traditional
instruments and doing a performance. I couldn’t put on anything
like the big concerts of the pop singers, but that’s not
what I’m aiming for anyhow. If only I could make a sound that
the people and the grass and trees at the bottom of the water
would listen to. But before that I need to listen again carefully
to Ohina and Omomo’s singing—that’s what I’ve been wanting
to ask them all along.
———What was that reverberation I heard, coming from the
bottom of the lake and sounding like the beating of a drum
stretched across the water, struck by the Lord of the stalactite
cave? What was that sound? The hand of the spirit of the
earth, living in the stalactite cave at the depths of the waters
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for tens of thousands of years, watching over the village from
its birth to its last days—it must have regarded this manmade
lake as a drum and struck it, beat by beat, sending echoes
throughout the mountains all around. It’s etched into my
senses an idea for a composition that can’t be expressed in
Western music. Its sound will be built on Eastern musical
tones but it will be based on the distinctive voices that are only
in Amazoko. The plaintive voices of the spirits of its skies and
land will be woven into it.
“Looks like you’re thinking about something . . . Your face
has that same look of a flame burning in water as it did a while
back.”
“Well, I’m thinking. About what I asked you.”
“You mean that song from last night.”
“You have to sing it for me.”
“Well, I suppose I could, but . . .”
“And Ohina too. I want to ask her too. I know she seems so
busy now, but could you ask her for me?”
“These past few days she’s really been too busy. And me
too.”
“Well, with the two funerals and all I can imagine.”
Omomo looked down a bit as she spoke.
“Actually it’s been three—including your grandfather’s.”
Again, he had spoken thoughtlessly. He’d taken his meeting
with them, when he scattered his grandfather’s ashes, as coming
about merely by chance. Certainly he had made the visit
on O-bon to the site of the graves beneath the water and then
he had happened to meet these two women. But then they had
gone to all those efforts to carry out the ceremony for him. He
felt ashamed of his behavior. In spite of my coming here intending
to get away from the world of city people, who always
just ask for things and expect to get things in return, in coming
to this village haven’t I acted as the worst one of all?
221
“. . . Yes, you’re right, there were three of them. I’ve . . . so
many strange things have been happening to me. And you—
your singing a song like that.”
“Well, the song . . . the moon was beautiful and I felt as if
Moonshadow Bridge had reappeared, and I felt like singing on
the bridge . . .”
Masahiko felt as if he had already been at the edge of this
village for a long time. Hearing the various stories about the
villagers who were now dead made him recall parts of his
grandfather’s stories. It seemed that the meanings of his
grandfather’s words, along with the things he’d heard from the
people in the village, had all become mixed together to create
a new story in which the village at the bottom of the lake took
form and created a hitherto unknown world.
He was becoming bound up with all the signs of life in the
mountains and valleys, from the buds of the quince and magnolia
to the faint gurgling sounds of running water. All these
trees, grasses and flowers, whose names I hardly know—why
have I never thought of their significance for the human world
until now? I’ve just thought of these things as existing in picture
books of plants. But now it seems that here is where the
world begins. Even a lump of dirt—you can’t look at it as something
trivial. There isn’t a single element that’s not essential to
the earth’s make-up.
A bunch of red manma flowers formed a ruddy-colored
patch that spread out about the base of the mugwort plants.
What’s led me on must have been my seeing the way grandfather
cared for those pitiful potted plants of his; caring for the
tiny buds of those andromeda trees that looked as small as the
grains of sesame seeds. What would it look like if I went to the
top of the mountain? From there the andromeda trees must
look majestic—each one of them like a castle in a fairy tale.
When the rays of the evening sun catch on the bunches of
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their still-tight buds it must make an imposing sight. If I could
see tens of thousands of those buds in a mist of color, no matter
if I saw them from just a small hill, surely I couldn’t help
but take in the spirit of the mountains. Although Masahiko
knew hardly anything of the classics, a verse from the Manyoshu
came to mind.
I would pluck the andromeda
That blooms above the rocky shore
But they say
You are not here to see it
And come to think of it, could there be a more appropriate
person in whose hair to place a bunch of those sweet flowers
than the woman standing right in front of him? He wanted to
speak his thoughts to her but his words caught in his throat.
She seemed older than he. And today without lipstick she
looked so fresh and innocent.
“Look—over there.”
Omomo pointed for him to look, taking his attention from
his thoughts.
“That’s where the valley of vines used to be. In the old days
it used to be covered with matatabi silvervines.”
In the direction she was pointing there were two mountains
with a stand of cedar trees in the pass between them. The
scene was reflected perfectly on the surface of the lake.
These past few days when the old women got together they
had been talking about how the valley used to be good for
gathering silvervines. Masahiko could imagine that these
plants must have some kind of fruit but he knew nothing
about silvervines. This talk, however, seemed to leave the matter
of his request for the song dangling. What was it Omomo
was getting at? Falling silent he glanced at her face in profile.
223
Her eyes made him think of a bird about to take off.
“Since we’ve been taking time off for O-bon recently, today
I’m going to have to go over there.”
“Is there a road that goes all the way?”
“Yeah, there is.”
An uncomfortable feeling came over him—here’s someone
with work to do—He realized he was just an idle traveler.
“It looks like you’re busy—unlike me. But still, that song I
asked you for . . . That was the first time I’ve ever heard such
a song.”
“It’s a country song so that’s not surprising since you’re from
Tokyo.”
“What I meant was the voice. It was the first time I’ve heard
such a voice.”
Omomo’s eyes blinked and narrowed, sparkling with a light
like the scattering of water ripples. A flush of brilliant red
spread from her neck to her chin.
“The voice? You mean my voice?”
“Yes, yours, and Ohina’s too.”
“Really? Her voice used to be even better. I can’t sing like my
mother.”
“Well maybe so, but still I want to ask you both to sing for me.”
“Well, I suppose I could sing, if you don’t mind my voice,
but . . .”
Omomo looked off in the direction of the dam.
“Today my mother will be coming up here after Jimpei’s funeral
is finished.”
“Ah, Ohina-san.”
“Right. After the funeral.”
“Ah, that’s right, today’s his funeral.”
He remembered how yesterday, when Omomo was carrying
Sayuri’s ashes, she trudged along through the wind and rain
looking back along the pathway through the rice fields. But
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when Masahiko arrived at the temple following Kappei at the
end of the procession, Omomo had already gone.
“You said you were going to gather some ingredients for one
of your medicines, didn’t you?”
“Yes, for hyakumeikan, our ‘hundred lives’ herbal tablets.”
“But didn’t Ohina-san hurt her leg?”
“Right, so I’ll go with her.”
“So you know how to make the medicine too?”
“I can make it, and I have to go out and sell it.”
She spoke in a low voice as if talking to herself, but then she
drew in her breath and her words became clear.
“The past three days I’ve been working nonstop with the
transient world of the dead, so today I’m not going to sing.”
Masahiko realized that she must have thought of him as incredibly
childish. He, who couldn’t even support himself, was
acting as if he knew what life was all about in front of this
country girl who lived such a difficult life. He could hardly expect
to be accepted into the village. But even so, all that had
happened—from the scattering of his grandfather’s bones to
the events involving Sayuri and Jimpei—it all involved strange
ways of dying. Unlike himself, Omomo was a pure Amazoko
person. It seemed that what she’d called the “transient world
of the dead” was still working within her.
“Hey!”
Suddenly a loud voice sounded from behind. Turning
around to look, Masahiko saw Kappei appearing from the
shade of the andromeda tree and shortly after him Ohina,
limping slightly as she walked.
“That was pretty quick wasn’t it? Is the funeral already
over?”
“Yeah, it went pretty quick today and they didn’t need much
help.”
Ohina was panting and wiping her neck as she spoke.
225
“Mother’s a bit slow, so I imagine you had to take care of her.”
“Nah, I’m always amazed at Ohina’s strength. Those old days
are gone when no one could beat me climbing these hills.”
“What’s this nonsense? We both knocked ourselves out today.
My feet are killing me. It was just too much. And especially
with Kappei I overdid it.”
“Hey—enough, all right? I’m no longer the guy they used to
call ‘Porcupine.’ Since those two iron rods went through me
I’m only half the man I used to be. I can’t lift my feet so well
any more.”
The four sat down on the grass. Masahiko recalled the scene
from the day before when Kappei had left the crematorium after
everyone else and grasped at tufts of grass, trembling. Was
that the sort of cry they call a “wailing lament”? It was just two
days ago that morning that Masahiko had become involved
with the people gathered around Sayuri’s body when she was
pulled up from the lake. At that time, and when he took part
in her wake, and even during the funeral procession, Kappei
had seemed imposing and openhearted. He wondered if
Kappei was always this same sort of man. It seemed that whenever
he spoke the older women picked up on it and immediately
supported him in taking action. At the crematorium, after
all the other people went off into the storm, it was Kappei
who stayed on until the end to take care of things. He’d been
left sitting on the grass, drenched in rain, exhausted and on
the verge of collapse. He had held the last remains of Sayuri—
just a handful covered in a small white cloth—tightly in his
right hand. For Masahiko the scene would remain unforgettable.
Quietly he made room on his seat on the grass for Kappei
and while nodding to him he noticed Kappei’s feet. In place of
yesterday’s formal white tabi footwear he was wearing rough
workman’s tabi.
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Looking uncomfortable as she sat, Ohina said, “These damn
feet have been killing me since yesterday. Looks like I’ve done
them in this time.”
“I told you to take it easy today, so it figures they got
worse.”
“Well it looks like this unsettled state of things is going to
continue past O-bon. And I have some orders for medicine.”
Kappei spoke out.
“You’re talking about medicine for other people, but what
about yourself? You need to take care of your own feet before
you get into that.”
“OK, all right. Say, Omomo, do you have any matches on you?”
“What? Matches? Here, I’ve got some.” As he spoke, Kappei
pulled some matches from his pocket. “Thanks. That’s good.
Omomo, would you burn some mugwort for me?”
Omomo got up and soon started gathering mugwort. Almost
simultaneously Kappei got up, collected some dead branches
and started a fire by the shore of the lake. Then he began heating
the fresh mugwort leaves. Dragging her legs along, Ohina
pulled out a flat rock from inside the grass hut and motioned
to Masahiko to come over. She asked him to carry it for her. It
was the stone from the altar they’d set up for the offerings on
the sixteenth night of O-bon. The fragrance from the roasting
mugwort leaves drifted about.
“That should be about right now.”
Saying this, Ohina placed the now-pliant mugwort leaves on
the stone stand. Then Omomo picked up a small stone and
beat the leaves rapidly. The mugwort again gave off a pungent
fragrance. Kappei pulled out a hand towel and remarked, “OK,
it’s really hot now.”
Omomo quickly rolled up a wad of the mugwort leaves in a
hand towel and then wrapped it around her mother’s knee and
ankle. Breathing heavily, she grinned at Masahiko.
227
n
Ohina held out her bandaged knee carefully, as if to assess
the effectiveness of the treatment.
“Unh. It feels a little better now. I think it’s going to do the
trick.”
It seemed she had been speaking more to Masahiko than to
Kappei. Seeing such layperson’s medical treatment for the first
time, Masahiko stared almost motionlessly at the proceedings
being carried out on the grass.
“It’s better than nothing. Once we get back we can put on
some of our real medicine.”
“Yeah, we can wrap it up again with the medicine, but for
now this should be a lot better than nothing. Usually it starts
from the back.”
“You sell medicines, so you should be able to do your own
health checks, right?” Kappei, with his voice returning to that
familiar tone, teased Ohina. “If you can’t cure your own troubles,
how can you be giving out medicine to others?”
Crying out in pain as she extended her knee, Ohina turned
toward Omomo.
“Ah, dammit. Looks like I’ve done it this time. It doesn’t
want to move.”
“Well, didn’t I tell you to take the day off today? No wonder
it’s gotten worse.”
To Omomo’s remark Kappei replied, “All right, enough. Let’s
just say this is not the sort of work to be doing on O-bon. When
you work at a time like this it’s no good.”
“OK, but I had an order to fill.”
“The people here know you can’t work in unsettled times
like this.”
“Maybe so, but this is different. It’s the season now.”
“For what?”
“Snakes.”
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“Ah—for mamushi, the poison snakes. Then I’ll go get some.
I should be able to catch snakes like that.”
“But they’re most dangerous in the fall.”
“I know how dangerous they get.”
“But you have to catch them while they’re still alive.”
“Right—if they’re dead when you catch them they’re not as
effective.”
Kappei glanced at Masahiko.
“Well then my young gentleman, may I presume that you
will be accompanying me in capturing some autumn mamushi?”
Flustered, Masahiko shook his hand in confusion. The other
three broke into laughter.
“All right then Ohina-san, but not today. Just put it off for a
day or two. To tell the truth, I don’t really know how to catch
them, and I’ve never caught them alive. But why don’t we go
along too—what d’you say, Masahiko?”
It was hard to reply. He’d heard hints about the work Ohina
and Omomo did but he’d never heard it discussed directly. So
they really caught live poison snakes for a living?
“Do you say some kind of incantation for the snakes, Ohinasan?”
“Sure I do. I put a charm on them. If you’re too threatening
there’s no way you can catch them.” Ohina replied gravely,
gazing at the surface of the water.
“Maybe that’s so. Ohina can look at them in a way that
makes them get sleepy and coil up as they fall into a trance.”
“It’s not my eyes that does it. I sing them a lullaby.”
“So it’s lullabies you use, is it? Ha—that’s great—a lullaby.
And they drift off into dreams as Ohina sings to them. They
just coil up and doze off into sleep.”
“What’s this you’re talking about? Masahiko-san might take
it as the truth.”
229
“It is the truth. Look—I’ll get her to put me to sleep too. This
time it really is true.”
For a moment there was silence. Ohina’s frowning eyebrows
looked like dried moss.
“I had a hunch that if I came up here I’d find Ohina-san and
Omomo-chan. I figured I would.”
“You know, I dreamed I met Kappei-san up here—right
Omomo?”
“Unh. Last night she dreamed she saw Kappei coming here.
He was carrying a streamer.”
“A streamer?”
“It wasn’t any ordinary flag. It was an obi made of bluishcolored
embroidered satin. You remember it? The satin obi
that was trailing behind Sayuri.”
Masahiko looked at Kappei’s face in silence. Could this be
the same obi he’d seen in his own dream?
“Kappei—you’ve got to take that obi with you and carry it
down from the lake up here. I asked you what you were doing
taking care of the funeral all by yourself, but you said it wasn’t
a funeral. You said you had to take the obi to Oki no Miya and
you were looking for the outlet of the waters. And you set up
the silver-blue obi as a banner on Susukibara Plain.”
Kappei’s mouth fell open in astonishment as he tried to figure
out what to make of Ohina’s words. Then his eyes began to
blink rapidly.
“When you set it up she appeared and walked down from
Utazaka Hill through the waters, just as easy as can be. She
was carrying a Shinto staff with folded white gohei papers and
telling you, ‘Kappei, this way, this way,’ and she led you down
the waterways that head off toward Oki no Miya. She went on
ahead and showed you the way. On, and on, all the way down.
She slipped past the mouth of the stalactite cave and in no
time she arrived at the sea of Oki no Miya. Already the tide
was rising.”
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His face dripping wet, Kappei spoke in a husky voice.
“And wasn’t Sayuri-san there?”
“No, I couldn’t see her.”
“. . . So Omomo-chan took me there in the dream?”
“I was worried about Kappei.”
“Well . . . thanks.”
In these people’s world it seemed there were no distinctions
between dreams and reality. And I dreamed of a water-colored
obi too—that dream of the fire and the girl from somewhere.
He was about to speak of it but the words didn’t come out.
The obi was the one that had been brought up from the
lake—the one wrapped around Sayuri’s body. Ohina had received
it with the elder priest’s wife serving as a witness, and
they had hung it on the sal tree by Ohina’s house. At that time
when Ohina asked her the wife had frowned at her.
“What do you think we should do with the obi that the person
who died was wearing? Do you think it’s right to just burn
it? We can’t just forget about it, can we?”
“Well, actually, Oai-sama talked about making Omomo the
next successor.”
“Successor to Sayuri?”
“Yes, Sayuri’s successor. And in order to carry out the ceremony
for the succession that obi is necessary. That piece of
material has special meaning.”
“Special? How’s that?”
“Because they say that when Sayuri’s mother died she was
wearing that same material wrapped around her belly.”
“Well if that’s the case then I suppose it must have meaning.
Look—this material, it’s the finest quality.”
“Oai-sama said Sayuri’s mother might have come from the
upper Mimigawa River.”
“It seems the mother must have had some pretty strong
reasons, and so with the baby in her womb she wrapped the
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precious material around her and left home. Oai-sama said
she must have been from a good family, judging from her
speech and the clothes she was wearing.”
Seeing the way Ohina was so absorbed in her thoughts, the
elder priest’s wife realized that she wasn’t likely to give up
such ideas easily.
“Well it seems rather strange to me, but I suppose Sayuri-san
and her mother have a special connection to your family, so
you’ll have to do what you think is best. It’s not for me to tell
you what to do.”
With this sort of talk going on, Ohina had spoken briefly
about how the obi had come to her and Omomo.
Would Omomo become the successor to Sayuri?
“Sayuri was such a beautiful dancer . . .”
From amidst the bushes, a bird called out in a plaintive
voice.
“Omomo can’t compete with Sayuri in looks, but she can
still sing the sacred songs. Omomo, you shouldn’t sing those
popular songs so much. It’s no good for your voice.”
Omomo glanced at her mother but made no reply.
“We need to decide on the day for the conferring of the obi.
We’re not going to send out announcements to everyone.
Kappei, I want you to be there.”
Feeling drawn into it, Kappei nodded. Lowering her voice a
bit, Ohina asked with a note of reserve, “Masahiko-san, do you
think you could still be here at that time?”
“Well, I guess so.”
Having spoken abruptly, his voice caught in his throat. Then
he spoke again, more positively.
“Please let me be there.”
Besides, he had just asked Omomo to sing. He wondered if
Omomo and Ohina would both sing. Ohina’s mentioning of
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Omomo singing popular songs seemed to refer to her difficult
character.
“A ceremony for the obi? So Omomo-chan is going to take
over for Sayuri, is she?”
“Unless she takes over, the voices of Oki no Miya will disappear.
After all, the village is under the water.”
“Hmm . . . Amazoko is in my dreams.”
“I’d like to invite the people who are the most closely related.”
“The most related . . ?”
With his head bowed forward it looked as if it had become
difficult for Kappei to speak.
“Your relationship is different, isn’t it?”
Ohina’s deep voice took on a husky tone, as if it were touching
Kappei’s bowed head.
“Yeah . . . my relation is rather different from that of most
people . . . That night I heard a horse cry out.”
Kappei picked one of the red manma flowers that were
blooming in the space between his legs and placed it in the big
palm of his hand. It looked to Masahiko like one of the little
wildflowers he’d come across in Tetsugakudo Park, where his
father liked to walk. But in contrast to the flowers and plants
in the city, the flowers Kappei held in his palm were marked
conspicuously with deep red colors. He opened and closed his
palm around them as if looking after something of great importance.
Ohina asked him again, “A horse?—You mean Jimpei’s?”
“I suppose so. There’s no one else in Amazoko who has a
horse any more.”
“Where’d you hear it?”
“Near the valley of vines.”
“That’s the place everyone’s been saying Sayuri jumped off
the cliff.”
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“I’d have to guess the same thing myself. It was just about
the right time and the horse’s voice was different from usual.
It gave me an uneasy feeling.”
“Were you alone when you heard it?”
“No, I was out with old Heisuke-san.”
“Well . . . that’s good. If it were just one person, there’d be
more doubt about it. But what in the world were you doing out
there at that time of night?”
“Well, it was a moonlight night during O-bon and he asked
me to go along to pay respects to the graves at the bottom of
the lake.”
“What?”
With a deep sigh Ohina looked at Omomo and Masahiko,
one by one.
“That was the same time when we were scattering
Masahito’s ashes here by Utazaka Hill.”
Omomo, apparently thinking things over deeply, opened
her mouth and spoke.
“If it had been in the daytime we’d have been able to see
you, even on the far bank.”
“Right. When we looked over there on the far shore we saw
two or three lanterns flickering. That must’ve been you.”
After a while, Kappei continued.
“And so I asked him, ‘Did you hear that? Did you hear? It
sounds like Jimpei’s horse.’ I said that, all right. But it was
strange for a horse to be out there that night at the peak of Obon.
I thought it might be a spirit. Perhaps a spirit was imitating
the sound of Jimpei’s horse. I thought we should go back
quickly and take a look. I was afraid it might mean that someone
had just died. And then when we got to the embankment
we saw the flames from Jimpei’s house and heard people
shouting. Actually, at that time I wasn’t able to talk about it to
the old man, but I could see Sayuri there, walking along the
surface of the water.”
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“On the surface of the water? Sayuri?” Omomo asked in response.
“And it was no ghost. I could see the back of a girl with her
obi hanging down, walking along just below me on the surface
of the water. I saw it as clearly as in midday. And I could
clearly see the color and pattern of her obi.”
“You saw her from behind?”
“Right, from behind. I called out to the old man, ‘Look!
Look!—Over there.’ And then in an instant it disappeared.”
From this point, Kappei’s voice suddenly changed.
“I . . . I was thinking of killing Jimpei.”
The three cast their eyes on this man. The tip of the bunch
of red manma flowers sticking out from his hand was shaking.
“I guess that, since I was just wasting time, Sayuri went
ahead and set the fire and then took that horse she was so fond
of. Not wanting to part with it, she must have gone with it to
the top of the valley of vines.”
No one asked the question of why she would have set the
fire. Certainly Ohina and Omomo knew why they didn’t want
to discuss it.
“He thought she couldn’t speak. That guy Jimpei . . . Ohinasan—I
didn’t want to go to his funeral.”
Masahiko looked straight at Kappei’s pained-looking face.
Ohina nodded time after time, her eyes opening and shutting.
Each time she moved her care-stained eyelids the black line of
her eyelashes opened and closed like the lid of a pot, and each
time they opened, tears streamed out. Omomo’s eyes showed
no resemblance to her mother’s.
“Sayuri-san took things upon herself, and she finished them
by herself.”
Omomo stared at her mother and Kappei, and then gently
drew her hand up to her nose and smelled it. Her fingertips
were stained a tea-green color. It must have come from preparing
and roasting the mugwort to get rid of the bad spirits. She
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repeated this motion two or three times. Masahiko thought
that this too must have been done to drive off the bad spirits,
but it wasn’t something he felt like asking about. The parts of
her fingers that hadn’t been stained by the mugwort showed a
fresh sheen. Looking at her face, he saw that her eyes had a
sleepy look and he couldn’t tell what they were focusing on.
Rays of light swirled up from the surface of the water and
played about Ohina’s face and on Omomo’s chest.
Probably the wind was blowing about in some distant place.
How painful it must have been for Sayuri, who couldn’t speak,
to have to take care of all those things, all alone, all by herself.
He thought about the whole train of events—her setting the fire
that burned down the big house and stable of this newly rich
family and killed its master and drove his wife insane and
caused her to be sent to a mental institution—and how all this
had driven Sayuri to throw away her own life. And now the person
who was to become the successor to this shrine maiden, this
woman with a mysterious background, was here. Would it be
better if he escaped from them now? The idea occurred to him
and played about in his mind. Yet on the night Sayuri died, the
voices of Ohina and Omomo had seemed to Masahiko the very
finest of human voices. They sounded as if they had sprung
from the farthest reaches of the world, crept up among all kinds
of things and emerged as limpid sounds. As he watched the
whirlpools of light reflecting on Omomo’s fingers, he knew in
his heart that he had to do whatever he could to get them to sing
that song one more time. Suddenly, he spoke.
“I, . . . I’m going to be at Omomo’s ceremony for receiving
the obi. You can be sure of that.”
n
Twenty days passed, and Ohina stopped by the temple. She
was still limping a bit. She repeated the invitation to be preCHAPTER
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sent at Utazaka Hill on the night of the autumn equinox to
take part in “the aforementioned matter,” and then she returned
home. Before long the older priest’s wife came in with
a frown on her face.
“It seems you received an invitation from Ohina-san, didn’t
you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I must say, it seems Ohina and Omomo have been acting
rather different from usual. That talk about succeeding to
Sayuri-san’s work. What’s that all about?”
As he wondered how to reply, the woman continued to
speak. “She even asked me to be there too, even though it’s
the autumn equinox, one of the most important days for the
temple.”
“Yes, but she said the ceremony would take place at night.”
“Well, I might have some free time at night, but my husband—what
would he say? He’d be very upset.”
Which implied, as Masahiko interpreted it, that she was
hinting that he too shouldn’t go.
“Actually, I want to study Ohina’s songs and I’ve asked her
to sing for me, so I really would like to go.”
“Songs? Ohina’s? Well that’s a rather unusual sort of research,
isn’t it?”
For a moment there was silence, but it seemed he might
have persuaded her.
“Well if that’s the case, it’s true that Ohina has performed
songs to call for the rains, but . . .”
As she nodded she looked back and forth between this
young man who had been staying at the temple and his musical
instrument. The whole family had been discussing this
topic. He played well enough, but the pieces he chose were
hard to appreciate. The younger wife and her mother in law
took turns in listening to him as he tuned his biwa.
237
“That’s a rather unusual sort of piece—it’s one I’m not accustomed
to hearing.”
“Well, it’s not finished yet.”
Sensing they must have been disturbing him they withdrew
from his room with tense smiles and looks of apology. Starting
to feel uncomfortable under the pressure put on him by these
two innocent women, he wondered how long he might be able
to remain at the temple in good favor. Completely unaware of
Masahiko’s thoughts, the older wife quickly went on to ask him
about the ceremony.
“So then, at this ceremony for the succession is Ohina-san
going to sing?”
“Well, I’m not sure about it yet. But if she did sing and I
weren’t there . . . That’s the start of my study.”
He had stressed that he was going to carry out a study—and
that, in fact, was no lie.
“Well I must say, I’ve never heard of such a ceremony until
now; a ceremony for conferring an obi.”
Entering the living room in the morning, the elderly priest
offered an apology.
“I’m afraid these women here must have been bothering
you. I tell them not to chatter, but we’re just country folks here
so they’re curious. I try not to let them into your room too often.”
Masahiko felt embarrassed.
“But these days it seems traditional Japanese music is going
through some major changes—at least it does to our untrained
ears. The shakuhachi and the koto as well. What we’re familiar
with is only the old style of music, you know. It seems to me
that what you’re playing is something that is, what should I
say, far beyond that.”
Sipping away leisurely at his tea, the elderly priest went on
expressing his thoughts about Masahiko’s music. Masahiko felt
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his face reddening. It seemed that some time ago when the
younger priest had gone off to Hitoyoshi and Kumamoto he
had tried to find the CDs of some Japanese musicians. In the
process apparently he had listened to quite a lot of music.
Then the younger wife spoke out, facing her husband.
“It seems Masahiko must represent the vanguard of modern
music composition.”
“The vanguard, you say? Well, you seem to be quite up on
these things.”
The young priest’s teasing had been intended as a rebuke
but it produced no effect.
“Think of the recent styles of calligraphy for instance. Even
though most people can’t read it, the artists get high recognition,
don’t they?”
“But that’s different from my case—I’m just not good yet.”
There was a burst of laughter at Masahiko’s flustered reply,
but from hearing the conversation at the breakfast table he realized
that the crude, unrefined sounds of his biwa must not
have suited the musical tastes of these people.
Apparently sensing it was a good time to speak out, the older
priest’s wife broke into the discussion, pointing at her husband.
“My husband, you know, he tells me I shouldn’t be going to
the obi ceremony for Omomo-chan.”
As if caught off guard, the elder priest sat up straight and
replied.
“My telling her not to go was not without reason, you know.
In the first place, to go right in the middle of the equinox week
would be inexcusable. The wife of a priest has all sorts of responsibilities
toward the temple during this time.”
“But it will be at night. The people will all have gone home
by that time.”
“Maybe so, but even at night someone might arrive from far
off. It would be irresponsible.”
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“That time when Ohina sang the prayer songs for rain, I
couldn’t go. You told me that the duty of a priest’s wife was to
take care of the affairs of the temple and that I shouldn’t be going
off to such a thing as a ceremony to pray for rain. And so I
didn’t go. People talked about Sayuri’s dancing, but I also
heard that Ohina’s singing was wonderful. They say that when
the rains came, everyone there on the top of the mountain
wiped away their tears. I was the only one that time who was
left out and I felt bad about it.”
“You, your interest shifts from one thing to another, like to
that sort of thing, and you lack a sense of responsibility to your
duties here at this temple. There would have been no point in
your going up the mountain with all the others. At that time
we welcomed everyone to the temple and we carried out
prayers for the rain ceremony, didn’t we? And you served
shochu, didn’t you?”
“Yes, that’s so.”
“So it’s no good for you to be running off this time either. I
don’t know what all this business about an obi succession is
about, but we will have people here for the higan dinner, according
to the ways of this temple. During the equinox week
it’s your responsibility to be here in the temple.”
“Yes, but Ohina-san is going to do something, isn’t she?
Probably she’s going to sing. When there’s something that
needs doing, that woman gets a power from the divine.”
“And so for that reason too we can have her sing right here
in this temple.”
“No, that wouldn’t do. Even if she sang here at the temple,
the song would be completely different from what it would be
up on the mountain.”
“Oh come on now. There are plenty of good songs in the
Buddhist hymns of praise too. If you’d only put a little effort
into practicing them once in a while.”
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“My voice isn’t suitable for either the chants or the hymns
of praise.”
Karehito’s eyes conveyed an embarrassed smile.
“In this obi ceremony—the obi will be Sayuri-san’s. If it were
a ceremony to celebrate a young girl then I’d understand, but
I’ve never heard of anything like this before. How are they going
to do it? I wonder who she’s told about this.”
The older priest’s wife turned toward Masahiko. “I suppose
the invitation for me was only a formality. Ohina-san must
have known I’d be busy here at the temple with the Higan
equinox duties. I guess she was really bringing the invitation
just for you but she mentioned it to me just to avoid seeming
impolite. So please, you go, and don’t worry about what’s going
on here at the temple.”
Karehito, the younger priest broke in. “She’s right. These
people tell stories about the old days of Amazoko Village. They
can only go back there in their dreams. Actually I envy them,
having a place they can return to in their dreams.”
“What’s this talk now? Since the old times this temple right
here has been the place they can return to at any time. This
temple has become the gate of return for the spirits of the people
of this village.”
“All right Father, perhaps that’s true, but this temple may be
too confining when you compare it to the world in their
hearts.”
“What do you mean—too confining? Why do you think we
talk of the vast, the infinite, and the unbounded in Buddhism?”
“All right, we talk about those things. But still it seems confining.
Sure we learn about the vast, the infinite, the unbounded,
and all, but here we’re living in the security of the
temple, satisfied with ourselves and putting ourselves above
the people who have to sweat to earn a living.”
241
The elderly priest’s face changed color.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, you know. I
was born here in this temple too. Don’t you think we may
have, unconsciously, become too puffed up about ourselves?”
“People are naturally endowed with dignity. That’s the way
I’ve taught you in bringing you up.”
“All right, and I appreciate that. I agree with you there—
about dignity, that is. For example, Ohina-san, whom we were
talking about—what do you say about that power of hers? They
say she makes a living off poison snakes and herbal medicines
and such. She may look roughly dressed, and the other day she
was limping along, but still it seems to me that her existence is
somehow more profound.”
“Ohina?—Why, we don’t even know her lineage or family
background.”
“Lineage?—what do you think that is? Thanks to you, I suppose,
by being born as the successor to this temple I’m considered
to have some sort of good “lineage”—so-called. But what
do I know of real human suffering? Sure, I’ve been to some
other temples, and tried to follow the religious teachings, but
there are plenty of things I’m ashamed of.
“Religion is supposed to help people deal with suffering,
isn’t it? Even though people who have been through all the
pains of life are coming here, we at the temple, who don’t
know anything about such things, behave as if we were superior
beings.”
Masahiko could see that the elderly priest’s wife was becoming
quite agitated about the discussion. She looked at her
husband and then at her son and then toward Masahiko as if
asking for help.
“I do place importance on relationships with people associated
with the temple, but I feel totally disgusted thinking that
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the temple people, including myself, are so insensitive. The
people who come here to help with the cooking and weeding—
it seems to me that they’re living better lives.”
“So what are you trying to do? Ruin this temple?”
The son remained silent for a while, gazing at his father and
mother before he spoke. “Sure there are times I feel that way.
But the believers here aren’t going to ruin this place. Those
people’s hearts are far more infinite and unbounded than any
theory or doctrine. Theirs is a true faith in the infinite and unbounded.
The fact is, this temple has always been cared for by
them, free of charge to us. They’ve given us their contributions
and donated things. We have to be grateful for all this—don’t
you think Masahiko?” The young priest Karehito smiled, showing
a row of white teeth. The elder priest seemed to wince at
his son’s words, and remained silent.
“Until recently I hadn’t heard any of the stories about Oaisan
being brought up as a baby by the Lord of Amazoko, who
can change into a snake. It all sounds like, what should I say?—
mythology—hearing the stories of Masahiko’s great-greatgrandmother
picking up that old woman and raising her. But
isn’t this what lineage is about, Father? Lineage is about a person’s
depth as a human being, isn’t it? It seems we, here at the
temple, are just leading shallow lives. We’re satisfied by getting
superficial respect but we don’t make efforts to get to know the
hard lives these people lead.”
“Don’t try to tell me we don’t know about that.” And in saying
this, the elder priest twitched his eyebrows and closed his
eyes.
“All right—sure we may know the headings in the Buddhist
encyclopedias and such, but if you take one day in the life of,
say, Kappei-san, or even Omomo-chan, how can you imagine
what sort of things they’re going through in their world, both
physically and spiritually? We’re always sitting here high and
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mighty, taking their generosity, while they’re out struggling
just to make ends meet. Isn’t that because we’re cloaked in authority?
It scares me to think that, living in a little hut like that,
unless they can catch a poison snake alive they may not have
anything to eat the next day. Yet she doesn’t look debased by it
and she’s always cheerful. Don’t you think so, Masahiko?”
As he nodded in reply, it seemed to Masahiko that the
shaded eyes of this young priest, though older than he, held
more appeal than usual.
“The Amazoko village that exists in their dreams, sealed off
at the bottom of the lake—what I envy in its people who can go
back there is that even though their world has been flooded,
its essence remains firmly preserved and it’s been entirely incorporated
into their being. Their memories of the way things
looked, and their meetings with people, and the sounds of creation
they hear in the ears of their souls—this must be very different
from what we know. In comparison, it seems we hardly
have a grasp on the world at all. Our knowledge and consciousness
seem vapid, empty.”
“That’s how I feel too. It’s like I don’t have a world I can hold
on to. I don’t really have any knowledge of the world at all.”
“But Masahiko-san, your coming here has been very important
to us and I’m grateful to you for it. Your special sound in
playing the biwa—it’s like your fingers are sort of groping along
the strings—it reminds me of that old blind musician Mizumaro.”
“Mizumaro-san? I remember my grandfather used to talk
about him.”
“What? Your grandfather told you about Mizumaro?”
The elderly priest’s wife sighed, as if relieved that the conversation
was finally calming down a bit.
“Well, my grandfather said a famous blind musician Mizumaro
told him the biwa’s strings are always waiting to make
sounds.”
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“Did he hear him in person?”
“Yes, and he said that whenever Mizumaro came over
Moonshadow Bridge he played a greeting on the biwa and the
villagers rushed out to greet him. It was while my grandfather
was still young, but I hear Mizumaro-san would stay at his
house for a month at a time and sometimes he went out
around the town. The story became a legend.”
The elderly priest broke into the conversation in a low voice,
as if released from a proscription on speaking. “It’s not just a
story. I heard about it from my parents too. A generation back,
people used to talk about how he used to come and play at the
temple in the autumn during Higan —isn’t that so?” He passed
the conversation to his wife.
“Well yes, that’s right. I heard about it many times right here
in the tea room from the former priest’s wife. She had a long
life. Whenever the blind musician Mizumaro came, everyone
would rush to the temple. I hear that they’d fill up the prayer
hall and there’d be people seated outside on bamboo mats as
well.”
“I hear they even came from other villages too.”
“Right. And when there wasn’t enough of the ceremonial
food to go around it was a big problem. The women had to
heat up more rice, and with their wanting to listen to the biwa
they might get distracted, so even the limited rice they’d prepared
sometimes got burned in the pot. But even with charred
rice, they’d make it into rice balls and everyone would eat it all
and there’d be nothing left.”
The wife continued on cheerfully, “He must have been quite
some player, that Mizumaro. Since I came here when I got married
I’ve never once seen the temple filled that way. It’s hard to
even imagine now. And it hasn’t happened since I’ve been here
either. And now Amazoko’s been lost to the dam too.”
In the midst of this pleasant family discussion Masahiko’s
mind turned to imagining. He wondered if he might write a
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piece of music that could recapture the feelings of those times
with all those piles of charred rice balls. He could use the
gongs and bells of the religious services as well.
Thanks to the generosity of his ancestors and kindness of
the priest’s family he’d been able to depend on the temple for
food and shelter, but he wondered if the day would ever come
when he could realize his dream. It was too much to speak of
himself as being at the vanguard of the music world since, at
least so far, sounds weren’t flowing within him. The words of
the young priest suggested that he might have sensed how
Masahiko was feeling.
“Getting back to what we were talking about before, it seems
that what you’re trying to create with the sounds of your music
is a pathway that might pull us back to that world beneath
the water. But so far it seems you haven’t found it. In Buddhism
we often use the word mumyô, which means ‘spiritual
darkness.’ It’s in the depths of such darkness, more than in the
brightness of light, that hints and signs begin to come to us,
like water bubbling its way up. I don’t know much about music,
but when I listen, it’s as if a spring also bubbles within me
and brings premonitions of being taken into that world. I hope
you won’t hesitate to stay here and work as long as you need
to bring these things out. It’s certainly our great pleasure to
have you with us.”
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