and the acolyte went away; and Hoichi seated himself on the verandah, according to the instructions given him. He laid his biwa on the planking beside him, and, assuming the attitude of meditation, remained quite still—taking care not to cough, or to breathe audibly. For hours he stayed thus.
Then, from the roadway, he heard the steps coming. They passed the gate, crossed the garden, approached the verandah, stopped—directly in front of him.
"Hoichi!" the deep voice called. But the blind man held his breath, and sat motionless.
"Hoichi!" grimly called the voice a second time. Then a third time—savagely:—
"Hoichi!"
Hoichi remained as still as a stone—and the voice grumbled:—
"No answer!—that won't do! … Must see where the fellow is." …
There was a noise of heavy feet mounting upon the verandah. The feet approached deliberately—halted beside him. Then, for long minutes—during which Hoichi felt his whole body shake to the beating of his heart—there was dead silence.
At last the gruff voice muttered close to him:—
"Here is the biwa; but of the biwa-player I see—only two ears! … So that explains why he did not answer: he had no mouth to answer with—there is nothing left of him but his ears … Now to my lord those ears I will take—in proof that the august commands have been obeyed, so far as was possible" …
At that instant Hoichi felt his ears gripped by fingers of iron, and torn off! Great as the pain was, he gave no cry. The heavy footfalls receded along the verandah—descended into the garden—passed out to the roadway—ceased. From either side of his head, the blind man felt a thick warm trickling; but he dared not lift his hands …
Before sunrise the priest came back. He hastened at once to the verandah in the rear, stepped and slipped upon something clammy, and uttered a cry of horror;—for he saw, by the light of his lantern, that the clamminess was blood. But he perceived Hoichi sitting there, in the attitude of meditation—with the blood still oozing from his wounds.
"My poor Hoichi!" cried the startled priest—"what is this? … You have been hurt?"
At the sound of his friend's voice, the blind man felt safe. He burst out sobbing, and tearfully told his adventure of the night.
"Poor, poor Hoichi!" the priest exclaimed—"all my fault!—my very grievous fault! … Everywhere upon your body the holy texts had been written—except upon your ears! I trusted my acolyte to do that part of the work; and it was very, very wrong of me not to have made sure that he had done it! … Well, the matter cannot now be helped;—we can only try to heal your hurts as soon as possible … Cheer up, friend!—the danger is now well over. You will never again be troubled by those visitors."
With the aid of a good doctor, Hoichi soon recovered from his injuries. The story of his strange adventure spread far and wide, and soon made him famous. Many noble persons went to Akamagaseki to hear him recite; and large presents of money were given to him—so that he became a wealthy man … But from the time of his adventure, he was known only by the appellation of Mimi-nashi-Hoichi: "Hoichi-the-Earless."
OSHIDORI
There was a falconer and hunter, named Sonjo, who lived in the district called Tamura-no-Go, of the province of Mutsu. One day he went out hunting, and could not find any game. But on his way home, at a place called Akanuma, he perceived a pair of oshidori [1] (mandarin-ducks), swimming together in a river that he was about to cross. To kill oshidori is not good; but Sonjo happened to be very hungry, and he shot at the pair. His arrow pierced the male: the female escaped into the rushes of the further shore, and disappeared. Sonjo took the dead bird home, and cooked it.
That night he dreamed a dreary dream. It seemed to him that a beautiful woman came into his room, and stood by his pillow, and began to weep. So bitterly did she weep that Sonjo felt as if his heart were being torn out while he listened. And the woman cried to him: "Why—oh! why did you kill him?—of what wrong was he guilty? … At Akanuma we were so happy together—and you killed him! … What harm did he ever do you? Do you even know what you have done?—oh! do you know what a cruel, what a wicked thing you have done? … Me too you have killed—for I will not live without my husband! … Only to tell you this I came." … Then again she wept aloud—so bitterly that the voice of her crying pierced into the marrow of the listener's bones;—and she sobbed out the words of this poem:—
Hi kurureba
Sasoeshi mono wo—
Akanuma no
Makomo no kure no
Hitori-ne zo uki!
("At the coming of twilight I invited him to return with me—! Now to sleep alone in the shadow of the rushes of Akanuma—ah! what misery unspeakable!") [2]
And after having uttered these verses she exclaimed:—"Ah, you do not know—you cannot know what you have done! But to-morrow, when you go to Akanuma, you will see—you will see … " So saying, and weeping very piteously, she went away.
When Sonjo awoke in the morning, this dream remained so vivid in his mind that he was greatly troubled. He remembered the words:—"But to-morrow, when you go to Akanuma, you will see—you will see." And he resolved to go there at once, that he might learn whether his dream was anything more than a dream.
So he went to Akanuma; and there, when he came to the river-bank, he saw the female oshidori swimming alone. In the same moment the bird perceived Sonjo; but, instead of trying to escape, she swam straight towards him, looking at him the while in a strange fixed way. Then, with her beak, she suddenly tore open her own body, and died before the hunter's eyes …
Sonjo shaved his head, and became a priest.
THE STORY OF O-TEI
A long time ago, in the town of Niigata, in the province of Echizen, there lived a man called Nagao Chosei.
Nagao was the son of a physician, and was educated for his father's profession. At an early age he had been betrothed to a girl called O-Tei, the daughter of one of his father's friends; and both families had agreed that the wedding should take place as soon as Nagao had finished his studies. But the health of O-Tei proved to be weak; and in her fifteenth year she was attacked by a fatal consumption. When she became aware that she must die, she sent for Nagao to bid him farewell.
As he knelt at her bedside, she said to him:—
"Nagao-Sama, (1) my betrothed, we were promised to each other from the time of our childhood; and we were to have been married at the end of this year. But now I am going to die;—the gods know what is best for us. If I were able to live for some years longer, I could only continue to be a cause of trouble and grief for others. With this frail body, I could not be a good wife; and therefore even to wish to live, for your sake, would be a very selfish wish. I am quite resigned
