WHITE CHRYSANTHEMUM (SHIRAGIKU)

 

WHITE CHRYSANTHEMUM

(SHIRAGIKU)

(The Project Gutenberg eBook of Warriors of Old Japan, and Other Stories, This story is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. Project Gutenberg License included at www.gutenberg.org.Title: Warriors of Old Japan, and Other Stories, Author: Yei Theodora Ozaki)

On the outskirts of a remote village at the foot of Mount Aso, in Kiushiu, a bell was slowly pealing from a Buddhist temple. It was the season of autumn, and the twilight was falling fast. Over the lonely place and the gloom of the deepening dusk of night the solemn music, reverberating across the hills, seemed to toll the transientness of all things earthly.

Not far from the temple was a small cottage. At the door stood a young girl anxiously waiting for her father to come home. From time to time, she wiped away the tears which fell from her eyes, and her face and attitude expressed great sorrow. She was but fifteen years of age, and as she stood there, a young and slender figure, she looked like a cherry-blossom of spring in the falling rain.

She was alone, for her father had gone out to hunt some days before and had never returned, and she had had no tidings whatever of him since. She and her father were all in all to each other; her mother was dead, and her elder brother was only a name to her; she could not remember him; he had run away from home when she was a small child, and no one knew what had become of him since.

As White Chrysanthemum, her heart full of sorrow and foreboding, watched and waited for her father's return, she started at everything,—at the leaves falling from the trees, at the sighing of the wind in their branches, at the dropping of the water from the bamboo pipe which brought the hill-stream to the house; as these different sounds from time to time caught her ear expectation made her hope that they might be the footsteps of her father coming home. But the hours passed by and still he did not return.

As the mists rose and the clouds began to close over the mountain, the loneliness of the scene was deepened by the plaint of insects chirruping in the grass, and by the slow pattering on the broad banana palm leaves of the rain just beginning to fall.

At last, the dreariness and stillness of approaching night oppressed the girl so much that she could bear it no longer, and she made up her mind to go in search of her father.

It was a sad sight to see her as she ran out from the bamboo gate and turned to give a last look at the little home nestling in the shelter of the pine trees. Then resolutely she turned away and set her face towards the mountain path. On her head she wore a large mushroom-shaped rainhat, and with a stick in her hand she began to climb up the rough thorny pass into the depths of the mountains, as they towered range upon range one above the other and were lost in the distance and blackness of night.

The rain fell more and more heavily, and as the girl stumbled up the steep pass, she had often to wring her sleeves, which were now wet with rain as well as with tears. So absorbed was White Chrysanthemum in the thought of finding her father, whom she had watched climb this very road three mornings before, that she hardly noticed that the storm gave signs of lifting. Suddenly the rain ceased, the clouds cleared, and the moon shone brightly. The change in the weather at last roused the girl to look about her, and she saw that the path now led her downward to the valley. With a sigh of relief, she quickened her pace.

She had walked for about two hours when she saw at some distance in front of her a single yellow ray of light shining through the gloom. Had she come to a house where she might possibly hear tidings of her father? As this hope dawned upon her, she eagerly hastened towards the light.

She soon reached an old Buddhist temple standing in the shadow of a group of pines and cryptomerias. From within came a voice chanting the Buddhist scriptures. Who could it be studying in so remote a place at that hour of the night?

Shiragiku entered the gate and in the moonlight which made everything visible saw that the whole place was in a dilapidated condition; the fence was falling in many places, weeds grew all over the garden and between the flagstones, as if no one ever trod the path; even the posts which supported the gate shook in the wind.

White Chrysanthemum walked up to the porch and knocked on the heavy wooden door. Not until she had knocked and called several times did, she hear any stir within; then some one answered in a subdued voice, the storm-shutters were pushed aside, and a young bonze appeared. He started when his eyes fell upon the girl, and he stared at her silently as if wondering who she could be or what had brought her there at that hour.

Shiragiku, seeing his scrutiny, drew near and said in a low sweet voice: "I am looking for my father. He went out hunting some days ago and has never come back. I am indeed sorry to trouble you, but will you be so kind as to tell me if any one has come to this temple either for rest or food within the last two or three days?"

The girl spoke so quietly and looked at him so gently that the young bonze was reassured in a moment. Her evident distress appealed to him, and when he looked at her again he saw that she was as beautiful as a flower; her skin was white as snow, her jet-black hair, disordered by the storm through which she had passed, fell like the graceful branches of a willow tree over her shoulders; her large almond eyes were sad and full of tears, and as he gazed upon her it seemed to him that she could not belong to the earth, that she must be a tennin—an angel from the Buddhist Heaven. He asked her to enter the temple and said: "Tell me who you are and whence you come, and what brings you out this stormy night. I will listen to your story if you tell it to me."

The wind had risen again and was blowing in gusts round the temple and whistling through the chinks and crannies of the old building, while from the garden came the mournful cries of an owl. The desolation and strangeness of the place touched the girl's sorrow to the quick, and she burst into tears. As soon as she was able to speak, she wiped her eyes and said between her sobs: "I am the daughter of a certain samurai of Kumamoto City. Our house was once rich and prosperous, and our hearts were full of joy; we lived happily, knowing nothing whatever of care or sorrow. When the war broke out all was changed; the grass round our house was stained with blood, and even the wind smelt of blood; families were scattered far and wide from the homes where they were born, and the air was rent with the cries of parents seeking their lost children and of children calling for their parents who could no longer hear them. Pity is no word to express the feeling which filled the heart at these sights. My father likewise went to the war, and my mother then escaped with me as far as Mount Aso. There she found a tiny cottage in the shadow of the temple, and with the money she had managed to bring with her we lived as best we could. As we were afterward told, my father fought with the rebels. When we heard that, we were greatly astonished, and our sleeves were never dry with wiping away our tears. Day by day, morning, noon, and night, we waited, hoping that my father would return—thus the summer passed. Autumn came and the wild geese flew across the sky in flocks toward the south, but there came no news of my father. My mother pined away with grief and anxiety, till at last she died. Thus, before we knew whether my father was alive or dead, I was left alone in life. I felt as if I were dreaming in a dream. Whenever I think of that time my heart is pierced with sorrow. My days were passed in weeping at my misfortunes and in bemoaning my unhappy fate. Had it not been for the kindness of neighbors in the village, I should not have been able to live.

"Last spring my father came back and found me out. I told him of my mother's death. Since then, he has never ceased to grieve. I tried to cheer him by telling him that it was the fate of all mortals to die, but my words brought him little comfort, and in this sad way we passed our time. The other day he went out hunting, and since then has never returned. Again, I was left alone with no one to look to for help. Unable to bear the loneliness any longer, I started out this evening to look for him and have come thus far. Our family name is Honda, my name is Shiragiku, my father's name is Akitoshi, my mother's name was Take, and my elder brother's Akihide. I can hardly remember Akihide, for when I was a small child he ran away, fearing my father's anger because of his bad conduct. But though he left us, my mother and I never forgot him. In the morning when it rained and in the winter evenings when the wind blew chill, we longed for him to come again to the shelter of his home, but from that day to this we have heard nothing of him and know not what has become of him. My mother gave me many messages for him, firmly believing that one day we should meet again, and that he would yet fulfil his duty as a son and restore our house to its former prosperity and happiness. In this hope she died."

As Shiragiku proceeded with her story the young bonze listened with eager attention. At these words his face changed with sudden emotion, and the tears fell from his eyes. After some moments he said to her: "Poor, poor girl! Your story is a very sad one, and I feel for you in your many troubles. You can go no further to-night; rest here in peace until the dawn!"

As he spoke it seemed to Shiragiku that his voice was familiar to her, and though she could not remember having seen him before, yet for some unaccountable reason she felt that he was no stranger. His manner was so kind and gentle and sympathetic as he went and came bringing food for her supper and quilts for her to sleep upon, that memories of her early home and childhood stirred her heart. Her thoughts went out to the runaway brother; if he would only return, he would be about the same age as the young bonze, and surely as good as he to any one in distress. Glad was she to have found a place of rest for the night. With many humble prostrations she thanked her host for his hospitality and apologized for all the trouble she had given him.

When he withdrew, bidding her "good night," she knelt in supplication before the shrine at the end of the room, where Amida Buddha and Kwannon, the Goddess of Mercy, reigned in peace above the lotus and the burning of incense. Only through the mercy of the gods could she hope to find her father, only through their help would her long-lost brother ever come back to those who waited for him year after year. For many minutes she knelt on, praying earnestly, then, worn out with grief and fatigue, she rose from her knees and lay down to fall fast asleep.

At the hour when the hush of night is deepest, Shiragiku saw her father enter the room and draw near her pillow. The tears stood in his eyes and in a sad voice he said: "Shiragiku, I have fallen over a precipice, and now I am at the bottom of a chasm many hundred feet deep. Here the brambles and bamboo grass grow so thick that I am unable to find my way out of the jungle. I may not live till the morrow, so I came to see you for the last time in this world."

As soon as he had finished speaking, White Chrysanthemum stretched out her hands and tried to catch hold of his sleeves to detain him, crying: "Father! father!" But with the sound of her own voice, she awoke.

She sprang up expecting to see her father, but there was nothing in the room except the night-lantern glimmering faintly. While she was wondering whether the vision was a dream or a reality, the dawn began to break and the beating of a drum throbbed through the temple. White Chrysanthemum rose soon after sunrise, ate the simple breakfast of rice and bean-soup she found slipped into her room, and quickly left the temple. She did not wait to see the kind priest, though he had asked her to do so, saying that he would do what he could to help her; for she had remembered his diffidence the night before, and thought that very likely he belonged to a sect which forbade its priests to converse with the world, and she felt sorry that she had disturbed him.

Her dream was so vividly real to her that it seemed as if she heard her father calling to her for help; so, making all possible speed she set but once more with the faith and simplicity of childhood to find him. Far off in the woods the bark of a fox could be heard, while along the path the cloudy tufts of the obana rustled as she passed. Shiragiku shivered as the cold morning wind pierced through her body. As she pursued her way along the rough mountain pass wild creatures scuttled away, frightened, from before her into the woods, and overhead the birds sang to each other in the trees.

At last, she reached the top of the pass, to find it covered with clouds, and it seemed to White Chrysanthemum as if they must carry her away with them in their onward sweep. She sat down on a stone to recover her breath, for the climb had been steep. In a few minutes the mists began to clear away. She stood up and looked about her, hoping that she might find some trace of her father, but as far as eye could reach nothing but mountains, range after range, could be seen riding one above the other in the blue sky.

Suddenly a noise in the bushes behind her made White Chrysanthemum start, and before she could flee a band of robbers rushed out upon her. They seized and bound her tightly. She cried out for help, but only the echoes answered her. Down the mountain they led her till they reached the valley; for a whole day they hurried her along till they came to a strange-looking house.

This was in such a neglected condition that moss covered the walls, and it was so closely shut up that the sunbeams never entered the rooms.

As they approached the place, a man who seemed to be the chief of the band came out, and as he caught sight of the maiden, said with an evil smile: "You've brought a good prize this time!"

The robbers now untied Shiragiku's hands and led her into the house and then into a room where dinner was prepared, with rice and fish and wine in great quantities. Then they all sat down, and as they began to eat, it seemed to her that they were a lot of demons. The chief passed some food to her and pressed her to eat. The long walk in the bracing air of the autumn day had made Shiragiku so hungry that despite her fear and distress she was glad of the food. At last, when she had finished her meal, he turned to her and said: "That you We been caught by my men and brought here must be the work of fate. So now you must look upon me as your husband and serve me all your life. I have a good koto [the Japanese harp] which I keep with great care, and to show your gratitude for this marriage you will have to play before me often and to cheer me with your songs, for I am fond of music. If you refuse to obey me, I will make your life as hard as climbing a mountain of swords or walking through a forest of needles."

Shiragiku felt that she would rather die than marry this man, but she could not refuse to play the koto for him. The koto was brought by one of the men at a word of command from the chief and placed before the girl, who began to strike the chords, her tears falling fast the while. She played so well that even those hard-hearted robbers were touched by her music, and one or two of them whispered together that hers was a hard fate and they wished that they could find some means of saving her.

Outside the house in the shadow of a large tree stood a young man, watching all that went on and listening to the music. By the voice of the singer as she sang, he knew that the player was she whom he sought. No sooner did the music stop than he rushed into the house and attacked the robbers with great fury. Anger gave strength to his onslaught, and the bandits were so taken by surprise that they were paralyzed with fear and offered no resistance. In a few minutes the chief was killed, while two others lay senseless on the mats, and the rest ran away.

Then the young man, who was dressed in the black vestments of a priest, took the trembling girl by the hand and led her to a window, through which the moonlight streamed. As Shiragiku gazed up in gratitude and wonder at her deliverer, she saw that he was none other than the young priest of the temple, who had been so kind to her the night before.

"Don't be afraid!" he said quietly and soothingly; "don't be afraid! I am no stranger; I am your brother Akihide. Now I will tell you my story, so listen to me. You cannot remember me, for you were only a little child of three when my bad conduct roused my father's anger, and I ran away from home and started for the capital. I embarked on a small vessel and after sailing along for several days I reached Waka-no-ura, passing the island of Awaji on the way. From Waka-no-ura I proceeded on foot. It was the close of spring and the cherry-blossoms were falling, and the ground was covered with the pink snow of their petals; but there was nothing of the joy of spring in my heart, which was heavy at the thought of my parents' displeasure and the fearful step I had just taken. As soon as I reached the capital, I put myself under the charge of a priest and went through a severe course of study, for I had already repented of my idle ways and longed to do better. Under my good master's guidance, I learned the way of virtue. My heart was softened by knowledge, and when I remembered the love of my parents, I regretted my evil past and never did the sun go down, but I wept in secret over it. So, the years went by. At last, the pain of homesickness became so great that I determined to return home and beg my parents' forgiveness. I hoped and planned to devote myself to them in their old age and to make amends in the future for the shortcomings of the past. But insurmountable difficulties beset me in my new-formed purpose. War had broken out, and the face of the country was entirely changed. Cities were turned into wildernesses, weeds grew tall and thick all over the roads, and when I reached our province, it was impossible to find either the old home or any one who could give me the slightest clue as to the whereabouts of you all. Life became a burden to me. You may imagine something of what I felt, but my tongue fails to describe my misery. I was desolate with no one belonging to me, so I resolved to forsake the world and become a priest, and after wandering about I took up my abode in that old temple where you found me. But even the religious life could not still my remorse. I was haunted by the fear of what had become of my father and mother and sister. Were they alive or were they dead? Should I ever see them again? These were the questions which tormented me ceaselessly. Morning and evening I prayed before the shrine in the room where you slept last night—prayed that I might have news of you all. Great is the mercy of Buddha! Imagine the mingled joy and sorrow I felt when you came yesterday and told me of all that had happened since I left home. I was about to make myself known to you, but I was too ashamed to do so. It was, however, harder for me to conceal my secret than it would have been to tell it, for I longed to do so with my whole heart and soul. In the morning when I came to the room and found you gone, I followed you in fear lest you should fall into the hands of the bandits who haunt these hills and thus it was that I saved you. You can never know how glad I am to have done this for you, but alas! I am ashamed to meet my father because of the remembrance of the past! Had I done my duty as a son, had I never run away wickedly from home, how much suffering I might have saved my mother and you, poor Shiragiku! Terrible indeed is my sin!" And with these words the young man drew out a short sword and was about to take his own life.

When Shiragiku saw what he was going to do, she gave a loud cry, and springing to his side seized his hands with all her strength and stopped him from doing the dread deed. With tender sisterly words she tried to comfort him, telling him that she knew his father had forgiven him, and was living in the daily hope of his return—that the happiness and solace he could now give him in his old age would more than atone for the past; she begged him to remember his mother's dying prayer that he would establish their house and keep up the ancestral rites before the family shrine when his parents were dead. As she spoke, he desisted from his desperate purpose. The peace of night and the stillness of the moonlit world around them brought balm to both their troubled hearts, and as they bade each other good night the silence was unbroken save for the cry of the wild geese as they flew across the sky.

In the early morning the brother and sister left the house, hand in hand. They had not gone far when they heard pursuing footsteps and looking back they saw two or three of the men who had escaped the night before coming after them. Akihide bade his sister run for her life, while he stayed behind and engaged the robbers in a fight and so gave her time to escape.

Shiragiku did as she was told and fled through the woods under cover of the trees. On and on she went, till at last she reached a place of safety out of sight. But her heart, beating wildly with fear, was behind with her brother, wondering what had happened to him, whether he had vanquished the bandits or had been killed by them. Who can describe her anxiety? She had found her brother only to lose him in this sad and uncertain way. Afraid to retrace her steps, yet anxious to know what had become of him, she climbed to the nearest hill-top to try if she could see anything of him, but around her there was nothing but hills and pine woods.

As she looked about her, she saw near by a little shrine, and, overcome with the terror of all that had befallen her within the last two days, she made her way towards it with trembling steps, and kneeling offered up a fervent prayer for help and for her brother's and father's safety.

An old man who was cutting down trees in the forest saw her weeping there, and his heart filled with pity for the young girl. He drew near and asked her to tell him what the matter was. On hearing her sad story, he led her to his home, saying that he would take care of her.

It was a quiet mountain place in the woods. The ground was covered with pine needles, the chrysanthemums round the humble cottage were fading, and the bell-insects were feebly tinkling in the grass, for the last days of autumn were passing.

Here in this retired spot Shiragiku lived in peace. The old woodcutter and his wife, having no children of their own, loved her as a daughter, for such she seemed to them, so amiable, patient, and helpful in all her ways was she, and they told her that they hoped she would remain with them to the end of their days. Shiragiku did her utmost to show her gratitude to the old couple for their kindness to her, but she never ceased to think of her father and brother and to look forward to the time when they would once more be a united family. In spite of all discouragements, she cherished this hope. Now and again she implored the old man to let her go and look for them; but he would not permit this, saying that it was not safe for an unprotected girl to roam the hills, that if she did so she would be sure to fall into the hands of robbers again, and that it was far wiser for her to wait till her father and brother found her than for her to seek them, not knowing where they were. Her reverence for old age made her obey him, and she waited in patience, hoping each day she rose that her father and brother would find her before the evening came.

During these quiet years she grew in beauty day by day and passed from girlhood into the bloom of early womanhood. The poor cotton robe—all that the woodcutter could give her-in no wise hid her loveliness. She was like a fine chrysanthemum shining among the wildflowers of the plain.

She was soon the acknowledged beauty of the place, and one spring the village chief sought her in marriage. The woodcutter, out of respect to the suitor's position, at once gave his consent.

When, however, the old man told Shiragiku of what he planned for her, her dismay was great. She begged him with tears to make excuses for her; she told him that she could not think of marriage till she had found her father. But he would not listen, saying that it was the best thing for her now to be settled in life.

That night the girl covered her face with her sleeves and wept long and bitterly when she lay down to rest.

"How can I obey the old man?" she sobbed to herself. "No, never-never! I remember now more vividly than ever what my mother told me when she was dying. 'You are not my own child, Shiragiku,' she said; 'one day many years ago I was returning from a visit to a temple. When passing through a field, I found a little baby crying amid some white chrysanthemums. Who can have been so wicked as to forsake such a lovely child? I said to myself; there must be some reason for this! I carried the little one home and brought her up as my own child. You are that child. Praying for blessings on you, I named you Shira-Giku, because I found you in a bed of white chrysanthemums. There is also something else I must tell you before I die. There is some one in the world to whom you must look like your brother and husband; he is none other than our son, who ran away rather than meet the anger of his father. We have never heard of him since he left, but if he is still living, I am sure he will come back to his family. Your father and I—your adopted parents—have always destined you for him; it is my last behest that you should refuse all other men and wait to marry our son, for come back I am sure he will one day; then live a happy life together in the old home, praying for our souls when we have left this world.' My mother's words are still in my ears. I hear them more clearly than ever," she sobbed to herself. "I owe her my life; how can I disobey her bidding? And yet how can I refuse to do as the old woodcutter asks, for he has been as a parent to me these last three years? What shall I do? Oh! what shall I do?"

Day by day the old man pressed her to accept the suitor and day by day in great perplexity she put him off. At last, seeing no way of escape from being unfilial to the memory of her mother and from fulfilling the old man's wish, she made up her mind to die and put an end to the struggle.

At this time the nakodo (go-between) of the marriage came and presented her with a roll of brocade for the obi (wide sash) and of damask silk for the kimono, the betrothal gift of the bridegroom. The old man and his wife rejoiced at what they considered her good fortune and regarded the matter as settled, and the neighbours came to congratulate them and to catch a glimpse of the chosen bride of their chief.

Shiragiku, however, had made up her mind. That night during a rainstorm she stole out from the wood-cutter's cottage. She looked back wistfully many times at the place which had fed and sheltered her for so long; but she told herself that there was no other way than this, for she must hold as sacred law her mother's last behest. In the despair of the last few weeks, when this unexpected marriage was being forced upon her, she had lost the hope of finding her father and brother again; but she would die rather than marry a stranger against her foster mother's dying wish.

The night was dark, for the sky was clouded. Down the empty street of the village Shiragiku hurried with the tightly closed thatch-roofed cottages on either side. Out across the silent stretches of rice-fields she ran till she reached the blackness of a pine wood, seeking for some spot where she could die.

The roar of water at last reached her ears, and she knew that she had come to a river. The moaning of the wind in the pine trees sounded to her like the voices of pursuers. She stopped to look around, but there was no one to be seen. The path leading down to the river grew rougher and darker as she entered the shadow of the trees, but Shiragiku never faltered in her determination to reach its bank. At last, the water glimmered like a wide white ribbon in the gloom of night.

"I will now die," said Shiragiku, weeping; "but alas! how sad my father and brother will be when they hear of my death. Forgive me," she cried aloud, "oh, my father, oh, elder brother, that I die first. I will await your coming beside my mother in Heaven."

Shiragiku now reached the edge of the bank and was about to dash down into the river with a prayer to Buddha on her lips when she found herself caught from behind and a familiar voice said to her: "Wait a moment! Tell me who you are and why you seek to take your life."

It was her brother Akihide. She gazed up at him in the dim light of the moon just coming forth from the clouds. They both clasped each other by the arms and burst into tears.

"Little sister!" "Elder brother!" cried the sister and brother both together in that shock of simultaneous recognition. In the speechless moments which followed they heard a flute from the village near by break the silence of the night—they watched the rain cease and the stars shine out one by one. Akihide led Shiragiku to a large stone; here they sat down and told each other all that had happened since they last parted.

 While they were talking the day broke; together they watched the sun rise in splendor and glisten and glow in thousands of rain-drops on the trees and grass around them.

"Let us go and tell the kind old wood-cutter and his wife all that has happened," said White Chrysanthemum, smiling through her tears; "I must bid him farewell and we must thank him, for indeed I owe him my life."

They walked to the village and went at once to the old man and told him their story. Shiragiku begged him to forgive her for not doing as he wished. Then Akihide told him that it had been his mother's dying wish that he should marry White Chrysanthemum and keep up the family name. With tears the brother and sister thanked the old couple for their ever-to-be-remembered kindness to White Chrysanthemum in her distress. They promised to come and see them whenever they could and to let them know all that happened to them in the future, a promise which they faithfully kept. They at last took leave with many gentle words on both sides.

Then Akihide and Shiragiku began a happy journey homewards, walking over the hills by day, and passing the night at some farmhouse or cottage they came to on their way.

When the brother and foster sister reached the little house in the valley at the foot of Mount Aso, it was early in the month of May; the cuckoos were singing, and the air was fragrant with the scent of orange-blossoms. In spite of the years of desertion and neglect, the tiny home still stood safe and firm as when Shiragiku had left it, though the grass had grown tall and thick in the garden and moss covered the roof. The sun was shining brightly over all, and the balm and gladness of the spring morning rested on their young souls.

For a moment White Chrysanthemum paused at the bamboo gate and said: "This is our home, elder brother!" Then quickly they ran down the garden, quickly they pushed back the paper screen of the entrance and entered. Were they waking or were they dreaming? Who should they see coming forward to meet them but their father, whom they had almost given up as dead. For a moment they were all silent. It seemed as if their hearts must burst with inexpressible joy.

"Father! Father!" cried Akihide and Shiragiku together, "is it really you? Are you safe and well?"

"Children, my children!" cried the astonished father, "have I found you at last?"

Then Akihide knelt before his father, and with his face bowed to the ground, confessed everything, and begged his father's forgiveness for the past. He told him all—how bitterly he had repented his behavior, how hard he had tried to make a new life for himself, how long he had searched for his parents in vain, his one wish being to make amends, how wonderfully he had met Shiragiku when he had at last despaired of ever finding any one of his family again, of all that had happened since her coming to the temple.

The father listened gravely to the long sad story; then with gentle words he forgave his son; he bade him to cease all self-reproach, and as he spoke the kind words his eyes grew dark with unshed tears. When Shiragiku told her story he commended her filial piety, her courage, and her patience. Now that they had as by a miracle of the gods found each other again, nothing should ever separate them.

Thus the little family found again the vanished happiness of other years.

Shiragiku now busied herself preparing the evening meal, and as she filled her father's and her brother's wine-cup the father told them all that had happened to him.

"When I went out hunting three years ago, I fell over a precipice, and found myself at the bottom of a chasm a hundred or more feet deep. I was quite unable to get out, so I lived on wild fruits and stream water for many days.

"One morning I chanced to see a band of monkeys climbing the chasm by means of a large wistaria-vine which formed a bridge from side to side. I followed their example and soon found myself free on the hillside once more. I returned here with all haste, only to find that Shiragiku had disappeared. Imagine my distress. I inquired of every one in the village, but no one had seen her go away, and there was no one who could tell me anything about her. There was but one thing left for me to do and that was to try and find her. So I set out walking through province after province, looking for her, but all in vain. At last I gave up my quest as hopeless and returned here only yesterday."

The joy of the little family was great beyond all words. This unexpected meeting—the utmost desire of their souls—was a happiness which took away their breath and left them silent with wonder and thankfulness. Only one thing saddened them—that the good mother, who had died of grief and anxiety, could not be present to share in this joyous reunion, and to know that her prayer was answered and that the long-lost son had returned to his family. But she was not forgotten—they spoke of her and missed her. Shiragiku rose and opened the little shrine standing in a closed recess at the end of the room, and taking some sticks of incense set them burning before the name-tablet set up in memory of her mother; for though Shiragiku now knew that she was not really her own mother, yet she always thought of her as such, for she had known no other. Father and son and adopted daughter then knelt and with hands clasped and bowed heads prayed before the little altar.

Shiragiku now fetched and tuned her koto (harp) and sang the songs she knew her father liked to hear. This done, she accompanied her brother, while he paced through some stately measures of the classic dance. The father, calling Akihide and Shiragiku to his side, told them that he wished them to marry, as his wife had always planned.

He was now an old man, he said, and could not expect to live much longer, and before his death it was his ardent wish to see his house established.

He then named an early date for the wedding. Akihide, having only entered upon a religious novitiate, was able to obey his father without breaking any vows. He bowed his willingness and Shiragiku blushed happily. She was content in fulfilling her good foster mother's last behest.

Now the sun set, a crane cried on the hill at the back of the house, and the stars came out one by one in the soft and darkening turquoise of a May twilight, and peace and joy reigned in the home and the hearts of the three wanderers.

The End

 

Last of the Dragons

(Public Domain Story)

Of course you know that dragons were once as common as motor-omnibuses are now, and almost as dangerous. But as every well-brought-up prince was expected to kill a dragon, and rescue a princess, the dragons grew fewer and fewer till it was often quite hard for a princess to find a dragon to be rescued from. And at last there were no more dragons in France and no more dragons in Germany, or Spain, or Italy, or Russia. There were some left in China, and are still, but they are cold and bronzy, and there were never any, of course, in America. But the last real live dragon left was in England, and of course that was a very long time ago, before what you call English History began. This dragon lived in Cornwall in the big caves amidst the rocks, and a very fine dragon it was, quite seventy feet long from the tip of its fearful snout to the end of its terrible tail. It breathed fire and smoke, and rattled when it walked, because its scales were made of iron. Its wings were like half-umbrellas -- or like bat's wings, only several thousand times bigger. Everyone was very frightened of it, and well they might be.

Now the King of Cornwall had one daughter, and when she was sixteen, of course she would have to go and face the dragon: such tales are always told in royal nurseries at twilight, so the Princess knew what she had to expect. The dragon would not eat her, of course -- because the prince would come and rescue her. But the Princess could not help thinking it would be much pleasanter to have nothing to do with the dragon at all -- not even to be rescued from him. `All the princes I know are such very silly little boys,' she told her father. `Why must I be rescued by a prince?'

`It's always done, my dear,' said the King, taking his crown off and putting it on the grass, for they were alone in the garden, and even kings must unbend sometimes.

`Father, darling,' said the Princess presently, when she had made a daisy chain and put it on the King's head, where the crown ought to have been. `Father, darling, couldn't we tie up one of the silly little princes for the dragon to look at -- and then I could go and kill the dragon and rescue the prince? I fence much better than any of the princes we know.'

`What an unladylike idea!' said the King, and put his crown on again, for he saw the Prime Minister coming with a basket of new-laid Bills for him to sign. `Dismiss the thought, my child. I rescued your mother from a dragon, and you don't want to set yourself up above her, I should hope?'

`But this is the last dragon. It is different from all other dragons.'

`How?' asked the King.

`Because he is the last,' said the Princess, and went off to her fencing lessons, with which she took great pains. She took great pains with all her lessons -- for she could not give up the idea of fighting the dragon. She took such pains that she became the strongest and boldest and most skilful and most sensible princess in Europe. She had always been the prettiest and nicest.

And the days and years went on, till at last the day came which was the day before the Princess was to be rescued from the dragon. The Prince who was to do this deed of valour was a pale prince, with large eyes and a head full of mathematics and philosophy, but he had unfortunately neglected his fencing lessons. He was to stay the night at the palace, and there was a banquet.

After supper the Princess sent her pet parrot to the Prince with a note. It said:

Please, Prince, come on to the terrace. I want to talk to you without anybody else hearing. --The Princess.

So, of course, he went -- and he saw her gown of silver a long way off shining among the shadows of the trees like water in starlight. And when he came quite close to her he said: `Princess, at your service,' and bent his cloth-of-gold-covered knee and put his hand on his cloth-of-gold-covered heart.

`Do you think,' said the Princess earnestly, `that you will be able to kill the dragon?'

`I will kill the dragon,' said the Prince firmly, `or perish in the attempt.'

`It's no use your perishing,' said the Princess.

`It's the least I can do,' said the Prince.

`What I'm afraid of is that it'll be the most you can do,' said the Princess.

`It's the only thing I can do,' said he, `unless I kill the dragon.'

`Why you should do anything for me is what I can't see,' said she.

`But I want to,' he said. `You must know that I love you better than anything in the world.'

When he said that he looked so kind that the Princess began to like him a little.

`Look here,' she said, `no one else will go out tomorrow. You know they tie me to a rock and leave me -- and then everybody scurries home and puts up the shutters and keeps them shut till you ride through the town in triumph shouting that you've killed the dragon, and I ride on the horse behind you weeping for joy.'

`I've heard that that is how it is done,' said he.

`Well, do you love me well enough to come very quickly and set me free -- and we'll fight the dragon together?'

'It wouldn't be safe for you.'

`Much safer for both of us for me to be free, with a sword in my hand, than tied up and helpless. Do agree.'

He could refuse her nothing. So he agreed. And next day everything happened as she had said.

When he had cut the cords that tied her to the rock they stood on the lonely mountain-side looking at each other.

`It seems to me,' said the Prince, `that this ceremony could have been arranged without the dragon.'

`Yes,' said the Princess, `but since it has been arranged with the dragon --'

`It seems such a pity to kill the dragon -- the last in the world,' said the Prince.

`Well then, don't let's,' said the Princess; `let's tame it not to eat princesses but to eat out of their hands. They say everything can be tamed by kindness.'

`Taming by kindness means giving them things to eat,' said the Prince. `Have you got anything to eat?'

She hadn't, but the Prince owned that he had a few biscuits. `Breakfast was so very early,' said he, `and I thought you might have felt faint after the fight.'

`How clever,' said the Princess, and they took a biscuit in each hand. And they looked here, and they looked there, but never a dragon could they see.

`But here's its trail,' said the Prince, and pointed to where the rock was scarred and scratched so as to make a track leading to a dark cave. It was like cart-ruts in a Sussex road, mixed with the marks of sea-gull's feet on the sea-sand. `Look, that's where it's dragged its brass tail and planted its steel claws.'

`Don't let's think how hard its tail and claws are,' said the Princess, `or I shall begin to be frightened -- and I know you can't tame anything, even by kindness, if you're frightened of it. Come on. Now or never.'

She caught the Prince's hand in hers and they ran along the path towards the dark mouth of the cave. But they did not run into it. It really was so very dark.

So they stood outside, and the Prince shouted: `What ho! Dragon there! What ho within!' And from the cave they heard an answering voice and great clattering and creaking. It sounded as though a rather large cotton-mill were stretching itself and waking up out of its sleep.

The Prince and the Princess trembled, but they stood firm.

`Dragon -- I say, dragon!' said the Princess, `do come out and talk to us. We've brought you a present.'

`Oh yes -- I know your presents,' growled the dragon in a huge rumbling voice. `One of those precious princesses, I suppose? And I've got to come out and fight for her. Well, I tell you straight, I'm not going to do it. A fair fight I wouldn't say no to -- a fair fight and no favour -- but one of those put-up fights where you've got to lose -- no! So I tell you. If I wanted a princess I'd come and take her, in my own time -- but I don't. What do you suppose I'd do with her, if I'd got her?'

`Eat her, wouldn't you?' said the Princess, in a voice that trembled a little.

`Eat a fiddle-stick end,' said the dragon very rudely. `I wouldn't touch the horrid thing.'

The Princess's voice grew firmer.

`Do you like biscuits?' she said.

`No,' growled the dragon.

`Not the nice little expensive ones with sugar on the top?'

`No,' growled the dragon.

`Then what do you like?' asked the Prince.

`You go away and don't bother me,' growled the dragon, and they could hear it turn over, and the clang and clatter of its turning echoed in the cave like the sound of the steam-hammers in the Arsenal at Woolwich.

The Prince and Princess looked at each other. What were they to do? Of course it was no use going home and telling the King that the dragon didn't want princesses -- because His Majesty was very old-fashioned and would never have believed that a new-fashioned dragon could ever be at all different from an old-fashioned dragon. They could not go into the cave and kill the dragon. Indeed, unless he attacked the Princess it did not seem fair to kill him at all.

`He must like something,' whispered the Princess, and she called out in a voice as sweet as honey and sugar-cane:

`Dragon! Dragon dear!'

`WHAT?' shouted the dragon. `Say that again!' and they could hear the dragon coming towards them through the darkness of the cave. The Princess shivered, and said in a very small voice:

`Dragon -- Dragon dear!'

And then the dragon came out. The Prince drew his sword, and the Princess drew hers -- the beautiful silver-handled one that the Prince had brought in his motor-car. But they did not attack; they moved slowly back as the dragon came out, all the vast scaly length of him, and lay along the rock -- his great wings half spread and his silvery sheen gleaming like diamonds in the sun. At last they could retreat no further -- the dark rock behind them stopped their way -- and with their backs to the rock they stood swords in hand and waited.

The dragon grew nearer and nearer -- and now they could see that he was not breathing fire and smoke as they had expected -- he came crawling slowly towards them wriggling a little as a puppy does when it wants to play and isn't quite sure whether you're not cross with it.

And then they saw that great tears were coursing down its brazen cheek.

`Whatever's the matter?' said the Prince.

`Nobody,' sobbed the dragon, `ever called me "dear" before!'

`Don't cry, dragon dear,' said the Princess. `We'll call you "dear" as often as you like. We want to tame you.'

`I am tame,' said the dragon -- `that's just it. That's what nobody but you has ever found out. I'm so tame that I'd eat out of your hands.'

`Eat what, dragon dear?' said the Princess. `Not biscuits?' The dragon slowly shook his heavy head.

`Not biscuits?' said the Princess tenderly. `What, then, dragon dear?'

`Your kindness quite undragons me,' it said. `No one has ever asked any of us what we like to eat -- always offering us princesses, and then rescuing them -- and never once, "What'll you take to drink the King's health in?" Cruel hard I call it,' and it wept again.

`But what would you like to drink our health in?' said the Prince. `We're going to be married today, aren't we, Princess?'

She said that she supposed so.

`What'll I take to drink your health in?' asked the dragon. `Ah, you're something like a gentleman, you are, sir. I don't mind if I do, sir. I'll be proud to drink you and your good lady's health in a tiny drop of' -- its voice faltered -- `to think of you asking me so friendly like,' it said. `Yes, sir, just a tiny drop of puppuppuppuppupetrol -- tha-that's what does a dragon good, sir --'

`I've lots in the car,' said the Prince, and was off down the mountain in a flash. He was a good judge of character and knew that with this dragon the Princess would be safe.

`If I might make so bold,' said the dragon, `while the gentleman's away -- p'raps just to pass the time you'd be so kind as to call me Dear again, and if you'd shake claws with a poor old dragon that's never been anybody's enemy but his own -- well, the last of the dragons will be the proudest dragon that's ever been since the first of them.'

It held out an enormous paw, and the great steel hooks that were its claws closed over the Princess's hand as softly as the claws of the Himalayan bear will close over the bit of bun you hand it through the bars at the Zoo.

And so the Prince and Princess went back to the palace in triumph, the dragon following them like a pet dog. And all through the wedding festivities no one drank more earnestly to the happiness of the bride and bridegroom than the Princess's pet dragon -- whom she had at once named Fido.

And when the happy pair were settled in their own kingdom, Fido came to them and begged to be allowed to make himself useful.

`There must be some little thing I can do,' he said, rattling his wings and stretching his claws. `My wings and claws and so on ought to be turned to some account -- to say nothing of my grateful heart.'

So the Prince had a special saddle or howdah made for him -- very long it was -- like the tops of many tramcars fitted together. One hundred and fifty seats were fitted to this, and the dragon, whose greatest pleasure was now to give pleasure to others, delighted in taking parties of children to the seaside. It flew through the air quite easily with its hundred and fifty little passengers -- and would lie on the sand patiently waiting till they were ready to return. The children were very fond of it, and used to call it Dear, a word which never failed to bring tears of affection and gratitude to its eyes. So it lived, useful and respected, till quite the other day -- when someone happened to say, in his hearing, that dragons were out-of-date, now so much new machinery had come in. This so distressed him that he asked the King to change him into something less old-fashioned, and the kindly monarch at once changed him into a mechanical contrivance. The dragon, indeed, became the first aeroplane.

The End.

Kiyohime and the Heartless Priest

Kiyohime and the Heartless Priest

(A Japanese Folklore Revised by BoSt  ) 

According to Japanese folklore Kiyohime (or simply Kiyo) was the daughter of a village headman named Shōji, on the Hidaka riverbank. The family was wealthy enough to entertain and provide lodging for traveling priests, who often passed by on their way to a shrine famous for ascetic practices.

One day a handsome visiting priest named Anchin, having arrived at dusk, accepted the gracious invitation to be Shoji’s guest for the night.

He was served a sumptuous meal and, was treated very well all during the evening with his needs generously provided for. He was even given the best bedroom. Unfortunately during the course of the night his attention was taken by Shoji’s rather bashful, beautiful daughter Kiyo.

As Anchin was rather a debonair, handsome young priest with suave manners and eloquent tongue, Kiyo quickly became smitten by him.

Anchin seeing that his feelings were reciprocated, and so wanting more time to get to know Kiyo, he deferred his morning departure and instead made up a plausible excuse so as to extend his stay for a few more days.

It was a beautiful time of year, when the Earth wore the bright coloured cloak of spring and frolicking birds and insects filled the air with cheerful melody. A few surreptitious, fervent meetings led to intimacy and Anachin, having totally lost his head, fell deeply in love with Kiyo.

Unfortunately Anchin, being a principled, devout individual most dedicated to his vocation, just as quickly snapped out of his infatuation and regained his senses,. From then on his demeanor was icy cold towards her and he refrained from any further covert meetings. Poor Kiyo wracked her brains for any explanation for this sudden change in Anchin and, failing to do so, fell into deep dismay.

In her view she’d been taken advantage of and most cruelly and reprehensibly victimized by Anachin; especially since until then she had been virtuous and proper. The rejection by this heartless rogue Priest fed the furies of her emotions fanning them into intense hatred.

When one afternoon Kiyohime was away visiting a neighbour, Anachin took advantage of her absence to escape this sticky situation. He quietly made his excuses to his host Shoji and quickly departed.

She was incensed when she returned and found him already gone without a word. Beside herself, she dashed out of the house leaving her baffled father behind.

Tears coursing down her cheeks she ran and ran in hot pursuit of the unfaithful lover, with her heart in a terrible grip of fiery rage.

Kiyohime eventually caught up with Anchin at the edge of the Hidaka River. Anchin, sighting her first, quickly hired the moored ferryman to help him across the river. Once on board, Anchin pressed the boatmen to gain speed. Paying him additional funds, he further cautioned the boatman not to let her cross after him.

Poor, distraught Kiyohime was crushed when she saw Anchin’s icy, heartless glare before he turned his face away to urge the boatmen for speed. She was so incensed; she bit her lip until blood trickled down her chin. Oblivious to her pain she dove into the rapid flowing river and started to swim towards them. She wanted some explanation, even a feeble excuse for his breaking his promise to her. While swimming in the torrent of the Hidaka River, thrashing this way and that, her heart was so filled with rage that it literally burst. Suddenly pitch darkness engulfed the waters. At that same moment she underwent a transformation, growing scales, becoming misshapen, and stretching until she turned into a fierce Dragon.

When Anchin looked back and, this time, saw her in the altered state of a monstrous Dragon effortlessly gliding through the foamy tumultuous waters, his heart skipped a beat. Fortunately the boat had just reached the other shore. Bypassing the boatman who was trying to moor his craft, he simply jumped onto the shore. His feet firmly planted on the ground, he raced towards the temple called Dōjō-ji. His heart still in his mouth, sweating profusely and panting heavily, he begged the priests of Dōjōji for their cooperation and help in escaping this monster, the terrible evil spirit scourge that had taken on the form of a Dragon. They believed in Anchin and quickly lowered the bell of the temple to hide him under it.

The Dragon at first hesitated to enter the temple. But then her icy breath blew open the enormous doors in a miasmic cloud of fog, dust and debris and she manifested inside.

“Where is he?” She roared. But no one was there to answer her as all the priests had taken flight and hid. Her fiery breath could have razed the temple to the ground but she still retained some benevolence and instead forcefully restrained her wrath.

She looked about her for a time, and then her keen sense picked up the frightened odor of Anchin quaking terribly, though well hidden, inside the giant bell.

Seething, the Dragon sliced through the air right across the room and coiled her enormous tail around the bell. She thrashed the bell loudly for several times. Anchin was nearly driven insane with all the noise and vibration. However he was trapped and deep down he knew he would pay for his sin. So he started to pray quietly for absolution.

Too late!

For just then the Dragon having tired of this fruitless torment, gave a gigantic belch of fire that engulfed and quickly melted the bell with Anchin inside.

The End.

Exchanging Discourse for Lodging

Exchanging Discourse for Lodging

Monks, especially wandering monks, do not carry cash on their person; therefore a custom was developed for the provision of adequate lodging. The traveler was required to undertake and win a debate about Buddhism with the inhabitants of the temple. In the event of a rare defeat he will have to move on. For this reason most temples only made a token attempt at winning the debate thus preserving the custom.

It so happens that in a temple at the far reaches of the country there dwelt two brother monks, passing the days in perfect harmony. This despite the fact they were vastly different in temperament and intelligence. The elder one was quite learned and wise, while the slow-witted younger one was unpredictable, moody and had only one good eye.

At dusk on a tempestuous day, when the sky was riddled with ominous clouds that threatened downpours any minute, a wandering monk knocked at the gate, seeking refuge for the night. A novice showing him to a room carried his proper challenge to a debate about the sublime teachings back to the brother monks.

The elder brother was much fatigued from diligent study of the scriptures and his heavy chores on that day, so he asked his younger brother to take his place this once. On the point of exiting the room however, not entirely trusting in other’s abilities, he cautioned, “Request the silent discourse.”

Nodding, the young monk left. Meeting the traveler at the shrine later, he sat down and started the silent dialogue.

Sometime later the traveler rose with resignation and sought the older monk to offer his farewells. “Your younger brother is a truly wonderful fellow. He defeated me proper.”

The weather outside had gotten worse as the torrential rains, driven by high winds, shook the walls of the temple. The elder brother was sorry to see him go but was at the same time amazed at the unexpected outcome. He quietly said.

“Can you relay the dialogue to me?”

“Well,” explained the travelling monk, “first I held up one finger, representing Buddha, the enlightened one. Your younger brother held up two fingers together, signifying Buddha and his teaching. I held up three fingers, representing Buddha, his teaching, and his followers, living the harmonious life. He’s truly brilliant; your brother is, for he then shook his clenched fist in my face, indicating that all three come from one realization. Thus he won the debate fair and square and so I now take my leave.” With this, the traveler reluctantly rose and left the premises.

“There is more to this than meets the eye.” The elder monk mused when, just then, his younger brother burst into the room.

“Now where is that fellow!” He asked irately.

“Calm yourself brother,” The elder indicated the seat across, “I understand you won the debate fair and square.”

“Won nothing!” The other huffed, “As soon as I catch him, I am going to give him a sound thrashing!”

“Is that any way to be?” The elder chastised him gently, sporting a bemused smile. “Come now, take a long breath, sit down and calmly tell me what was said.”

After a brief hesitation the younger brother did as he was bid. “Why, the second he saw me he held up one finger, insinuating that I have only one eye. As if I needed to be told. Since he was a stranger, wanting to be polite, I overlooked this and held up two of my fingers, congratulating him that he has two eyes. But the ill-mannered wretch held up three fingers, suggesting that between us we have three eyes. Would you believe it! I was so enraged that I held up my fist, in readiness to punch him, but the lout ran out and that ended it!”

Fini

Legend of the White Snake

Legend of the White Snake

(Retelling of an old legend)

Legend of the White Snake Part 1

A long time ago in the middle of a lake there was a white snake spirit who diligently practiced Taoist magical arts in the hope of becoming an immortal. Chancing on immortality pills that had been regurgitated by the boy Xu Xian, the white snake at once swallowed them and was instantly transformed and gained 500 years worth of magical powers. As an Immortal, the white snake found she could quite easily assume human form.

In the same lake meanwhile there had been a tortoise spirit who had also aspired to immortality. Having failed to consume any of the discarded pills, from that day hence he harbored a deep seated resentment for the white snake, blaming her for all his subsequent tribulations.

One day on the bridge the white snake observed a beggar who had just caught a green snake and was about to slice out its gallbladder to sell it. The poor green snake was crying and pleading for mercy to the deaf ears of the human. Filled with sympathy, the white snake at once transformed into a woman and, walking across the bridge, accosted the beggar. After an exchange of polite words she offered to buy the green snake alive, saving the green snake from being sliced alive. The grateful green snake from then on adopted the white snake as her elder sister.

Some 18 years later during the Qingming Festival the white snake and her green snake sister, very much intrigued by humans’ endeavors and yearning to experience humans’ joys, transformed themselves into two young ladies. Flying on clouds, they reached Hangzhou in no time at all and discreetly blended in with the crowd to enjoy the festivities. The White and Green snakes were so enthralled by the beauty of the surroundings that they quickly forgot themselves, throwing all caution aside. 
Now West Lake lies beside the city of Hangzhou and, bordered by lush green hills, has always been renowned for its breathtaking scenery drawing many scholars or noted visitors who loved to stroll its banks or take boats across the water.

As luck would have it, there at the Broken Bridge, these two ladies chanced on Xu Xian. 
When the capricious sun took refuge behind some clouds and rain fell, the two ladies had sought shelter under the willow tree without much success. Xu, by then a handsome and gallant young scholar, saw the ladies in dire straits and offered them his umbrella at once. As Lady White insisted on Xu sharing the umbrella with them the two, during their conversation, had quietly fallen in love. In this way Destiny had played a hand to draw these two lovers together.

Meanwhile Lady White had learned that the scholar was simply returning from a visit to his mother’s grave. He had been orphaned when young and presently lived with his sister and her husband, earning a scant living as an assistant in their herbal medicine shop.

To make the long story short, Lady White (or Bai Suzhen as she’d introduced herself to the scholar), throwing all caution to the wind, married the scholar Xu Xian. The happy couple then moved to Zhenjiang and there, with the sizable funds from her supposed inheritance, opened a medicine shop of their own. Utilizing her extensive knowledge of various herbal medicines they were able to successfully cure many ailments, and before long the business prospered. Lady White especially was much beloved because of her dedication to helping the sick, no matter how poor they were.

End of Part 1

Legend of the White Snake Part 2

Oh, but oh so fickle is fate; for the terrapin spirit that once dwelled in the same lake as Bai Suzhen had, by this time, accumulated enough powers to take on a human form and had transformed into a Buddhist monk called Fahai who, without much success, also dabbled in the healing arts. He learned about the brilliance of Bai Suzhen and, to his chagrin, discovered that she is his old nemesis Lady White. He was further consumed by jealousy when he found out about her blissful existence and from then on plotted to break up her relationship with Xu Xian. He visited their shop and, finding an opportunity, discretely approached Xu Xian when Bai Suzhen, by then an expectant mother, went off for a brief respite leaving her husband to tend to customers.

“I’m Fahai, the Abbot of Gold Mountain Temple,” the disguised turtle introduced himself to Xu in a conspiratorial whisper. “I have come here, under this pretext, to warn you of the great peril you are in. Through my spiritual guide, I have discovered that your wife is in fact, a thousand-year-old snake. Heed my words young man, for now she hides well her true nature, but one day she will surely turn on you, as all demons do, and devour you!”

“How dare you say such a thing?” protested Xu. “My wife is an angel, what you say is nothing short of a wicked slander!”

“Fine, fine; don’t take my word for it.” Fa shaking an index finger, sternly admonished Xu. He next pretended to storm out the door but, as if on a second thought, he halted and, half turning, said, “Before long the Duanwu Festival will be here. Offer her realgar wine, if she does not revert back to her true form, then I, in advance, offer my apologies.”

At the Duanwu festival, according to an old custom, everyone would liberally partake of wine mixed with foul-smelling realgar to supposedly to drive away snakes or evil spirits.

To escape disclosure and wary of the possible dangers, Lady White had feigned illness during the Duanwi Festival. She insisted on keeping to her bed but encouraged her husband to go out and partake of the festivities, while Xiaoqing (Green Snake) tended to her needs. That might have been the end of that but unfortunately, however, the devoted Xu refused to leave her side and, desiring her to be especially safe, he further insisted that she drink some measure of the realgar concoction. When she adamantly refused and offered only feeble excuses Fahai’s dire warnings rushed to Xu’s mind. His demeanor darkened but then just as quickly he dismissed it all with a wave of his hand. When his wife inquired as to the reason for his odd behaviour, Xu simply shrugged and related the warning words of Fahai, thinking it to be nothing other than a poor joke.

But Bai could not conceal her terror and her face grew visibly pallid. The wave of suspicion that grazed his eyes, though briefly, wrenched Bai’s heart. Hoping that her accrued powers were strong enough to withstand the danger she dismissed Xiaoping and requested a cup of reagal wine from her husband. Receiving it, she quickly downed it. As further reassurance she pretended to like it and asked for more, but before she could finish the third, she began to retch violently. She was helped to her bed by her most concerned and apologetic husband who then rushed out the door to fetch her some medicine. When he returned, he found, instead of his wife, a giant white snake coiled on the bed. The shock was too great for Xu Xian to bear and he instantly collapsed dead onto the floor.

End of Part 2

Legend of the White Snake Part 3

Later, when Bai reverted back to human form, Xiaoping told her the result of Bai’s reckless act; how she had discovered Xu’s corpse. Grief-stricken, Bai knelt by her husband and wept and wept.

Eventually setting aside her grief, Bai Suzhen (Lady White) and Xiaoqing (Green Snake) traveled to Mount Emei, where they braved countless dangers to steal a magical herb. Ingesting the drink made from this magic mushroom, Xu Xian was swiftly restored back to life. But though he’d fully recovered a strange alienation dogged their marriage. Inwardly terrified that his wife was not human, and being ignorant of her heroic efforts to save his life, Xu from then on shunned any intimacy with Bai.

Desperate to regain his affections, Bai one day played a rather ingenious ruse on her husband. Her white silk sash was turned to a living snake and, with this as a plausible explanation; Xu was led to believe that the scarf was what had frightened him. Subsequently, their marital bliss returned until Xu decided to visit Gold Mountain Temple to express his gratitude to Buddha for their present happiness.

On his way Xu encountered Fahai along the banks of the river. Latter still adamant about his dire warnings, Fahai again planted the seed of suspicion in Xu’s heart, hinting that his wife was not above playing dirty tricks on him. Terrified, Xu was then given a possible solution to his dilemma: “Become a monk and live at the temple; that’s one place the demon that is your wife, won’t be able to reach you.”

At first Xu Xian had remained reticent, as he’d been torn between the love he felt for his wife and the fear of her. Subsequently, with his head and his heart still at war; his ambivalence seemingly eternal, he decided to defer any decision till later and, on the urging of Fahai, boarded the raft. Together they crossed over to the river island where the Gold Mountain temple was built. Once inside however Xu found himself virtually imprisoned.

“This is for your own good. You should be thanking me for saving your life,” Insisted Fahai as he turned the key to Xu’s cell door.

Three days passed and Xu had not returned. By then Bai was worried and anticipating the grievous outcome, she shared her intentions with her sister Xiaoqing. On the following day they both armed themselves with swords and set off on the rescue mission. Unfortunately Fahai had predicted this move and awaited them at the temple gate with sizeable force.

At first, Bai tried diplomacy, but no amount of pleading or threats would persuade Fahai to release Xu.

“Vile Demon!” Fahai, grinding his teeth, bellowed. “You cannot feast on this human. It is my solemn duty to protect unsuspecting humans from one such as you!”

“I have harmed no one and helped many,” protested Lady White. “Surely the demon is he who divides man and wife!”

“Save your breath sister, he won’t listen to any reason!” Xiaoqinq interceded. “Force is our only recourse; nothing short of violence will get through that thick skull of his!”

Constrained by circumstances, the lovely and courageous Bai Suzhen and Xiaoqing fought a fierce battle with Fahai and his group for many a day. Despondent, Bai used her powers to flood the temple, with dire consequences, as many innocents drowned.

Yet Bai Suzhen’s pregnancy had impaired her powers. In the end she was forced to admit defeat and forced to flee to safety and fight another day.

From within the temple cell meanwhile, Xu had heard all that seemingly endless commotion of the battle. Upon discovering that it was his wife’s attempt at his rescue he became adamant to at least to stand by her. Using his wits he eventually succeeded in escaping from Jinshan Temple and, at long last finding her, both disclosed the truth in a lengthy, breathless, talk.

“I now understand how you’ve suffered for my sake.” Xu hugged his wife in the end. “Human or not, I shall love you for all eternity. “

The reunited lovers then move to Hangzhou, where Bai Suzhen gave birth to a son, Xu Mengjiao. Once more their happiness would have been boundless had it not been for their adamant foe Fahai who, unfortunately, again hunted them down and, after defeating Bai Suzhen, imprisoned her permanently in Leifeng Pagoda.

Fahai’s last words to her were, “At a painstaking cost, you have been finally been subdued, Demon! Now you can harm no one. Contemplate your many sins, for not until the lake dries up and the pagoda falls can you come out again!”

Her stoic response was, “Though you call yourself a monk; you are as rigid as the unyielding rock. You have condemned me without cause and caused me grievous pain, unjustly so. But know this, though you tear me from my infant son and from my husband’s arms, you cannot stop our love.”

Do not fret however; there was a happy ending after all.

20 years later, Xu Mengjiao topped the imperial examination and returned home in glory. At the same time, Xiaoqing, who’d escaped when Bai Suzhen was captured by Fahai, went to Jinshan Temple to confront Fahai and succeeded in defeating him. Bai Suzhen was freed from Leifeng Pagoda and reunited with her husband and son, while Fahai fled, hiding inside the stomach of a crab.

The End