Rashomon and Seventeen Other Stories (10 page)

The crowd, however, barely swallowing, continued to wait patiently for the dragon to ascend, as if unconscious of the passing of the hours. The sea of people below the gate kept spreading, and the number of aristocrats' carriages kept growing so that in some places their axle hubs were scraping against one another. You can probably imagine from what I said before how miserable this sight made E'in feel. But then something odd began to happen. Somehow or other, E'in too began to feel that the dragon would actually ascend—though at first, it was more a feeling that he could not be certain it would
not
. Since he was the one who had put the signboard up, you wouldn't think he could possibly entertain such idiotic thoughts, but as he watched the waves of black hats beneath him surging and ebbing, he came to be convinced that some awe-inspiring event was going to take place. Could it be that the feeling shared by the many spectators came at some point to possess Storenose himself? Or might it be that he felt so guilty about the uproar he had caused by simply putting up his signboard that, before he knew it, he had begun wishing with all his might that a dragon really
would
ascend for him? In any case, though he knew perfectly well that he himself had written the words on the signboard, his misgivings began to fade little by little, and he joined his aunt the nun in staring tirelessly at the surface of the pond. In fact, if
not
for some such change in feeling, it would have been impossible for him to spend the better part of a day—even grudgingly—standing beneath the Great South Gate, waiting for a dragon that could not possibly come.

Meanwhile, Sarusawa Pond just kept on reflecting the spring
sunlight without raising a ripple on its surface. The sky remained so perfectly clear you couldn't have found a cloud the size of your fist in it. And the spectators, beneath their parasols or their canopies or behind the railings of their viewing stands, stayed piled one upon another, seemingly unconscious that the sunlight was shifting from morning to noon, from noon to evening, as they waited for the Dragon King to reveal himself at any moment.

E'in had been there more than half the day when a long, thin cloud like a trail of incense smoke formed in the air overhead and began to grow. All at once the clear, tranquil sky turned dark and a gust of wind blew down to the pond, stirring waves on its heretofore mirror-like surface. As patient as the spectators had been, the sudden change sent a flurry through the crowd, and before they knew it the heavens seemed to tip and pour a gushing, white shower of rain over them. Horrific thunder began to peal, and streaks of lightning flashed back and forth like shuttles weaving a great cloth in the sky. They tore apart a bank of clouds that had formed an angular mass, and with their remaining force they seemed to swirl the pond water up into a mighty pillar. In that instant, between the spray and the clouds, E'in's eyes caught the faint image of a hundred-foot-long black dragon rising straight up into the sky, its golden talons flashing. That lasted but a split-second, and then, I'm told, all you could see was the storm whipping cherry blossoms from the trees around the pond up into the pitch-dark sky. The panicked spectators scattered in all directions under the lightning, in waves as violent as the pond's—but there's no point in going into all that now.

Well, then, the torrential downpour soon ended, and blue sky began to appear between the clouds. E'in looked around him, wide-eyed, wearing an expression that suggested he had forgotten all about his big nose. Had his eyes been playing tricks on him when he saw the image of the dragon? The thought made him feel—especially since he was the one who had put up the signboard—that the ascent of the dragon could not have happened. Still, though, he'd seen what he had seen. Yet the more he thought about it, the less he could be sure of
anything. His aunt the nun was sitting on the ground next to him at the base of a gate pillar, looking more dead than alive. He helped her up and, unable to hide the strange embarrassment he felt, he asked her timidly, “Did you see the dragon?”

She took a deep breath and, as though terrified and maybe even unable to speak, she just nodded several times. Eventually, though, her voice trembling, she answered, “I did see it. I did. Black all over except for its golden talons flashing: it must have been a Dragon God.”

So, then, it wasn't just a trick of the eyes of Storehouse-nose, Master of the Profound Dialogue, E'in. No, when he heard later what people were saying to each other, it turned out that almost everyone gathered there that day—old and young, men and women—had seen the image in the clouds of a black dragon ascending to heaven.

Sometime after that, I hear, on a sudden impulse E'in confessed that he had been the one who erected the signboard, but none of his fellow priests—including Emon—would believe him. So, then, had his prank with the signboard hit the bull's-eye? Or had it missed the target completely? You might try asking that question of Storenose/Storehouse-nose/Bignosed Former Keeper of His Majesty's Storehouse and Master of the Profound Dialogue, the Reverend E'in, but even he won't be able to give you an answer.

It begins one day as He was strolling alone in Paradise by the banks of the Lotus Pond. The blossoms on the pond were like perfect white pearls, and from their golden centers wafted forth a never-ending fragrance wonderful beyond description. I think it must have been morning in Paradise.

Soon Lord Shakyamuni stepped to the edge of the pond, where He glanced down through the spreading lotus leaves to the spectacle below. Directly beneath the Lotus Pond of Paradise lay the lower depths of Hell, and as He peered through the crystalline waters, He could see the River of Three Crossings and the Mountain of Needles as clearly as if He were viewing pictures in a peep-box.
²

Down there His eye came to rest upon a man named Kandata, who was writhing in Hell with all the other sinners. This great robber had done many evil deeds: he had even killed people, and burned down houses. But it seems that Kandata had performed one single act of goodness. Passing through a deep wood one day, he had noticed a tiny spider creeping along the wayside. His first thought was to stamp it to death, but as he raised his foot, he told himself, “No, no. Even this puny creature is a living thing. To take its life for no reason would be too cruel.” And so he had let it pass unharmed.

Now, as He looked down at the nether world, Lord Shakyamuni recalled how Kandata had saved the spider, and He decided to reward him for it by delivering him from Hell if
possible. By happy chance, He turned to see a heavenly spider spinning a beautiful silver thread atop a lotus leaf the color of shimmering jade. Gently lifting the spider thread, He lowered it straight down through the pearl-like blossoms to the depths far below.

And then, children, what do you think happened next? Yes, indeed: raising his head, Kandata chanced to look up toward the sky above the Pond of Blood and saw the gleaming silver spider thread, so slender and delicate, slipping stealthily down through the silent darkness from the high, high heavens, coming straight for
him
! Kandata clapped his hands in joy. If only he could take hold of this thread and climb up and up, he could probably escape from Hell. And maybe, with luck, he could even enter Paradise. Then he would never again be driven up the Mountain of Needles or plunged down into the Pond of Blood.

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than Kandata grasped the spider thread and started climbing with all his might, higher and higher. As a great robber, Kandata had had plenty of practice at this kind of hand-over-hand rope climbing.

Hell and Heaven, though, are untold thousands of leagues apart, so it was not easy even for a man like Kandata to escape, no matter how hard he tried. He soon began to tire, until he
couldn't raise his arm for even one more pull. He had no choice but to stop for a rest, and as he clung to the spider thread, he looked down far below.

Then he realized that all his climbing had been worth the effort: the Pond of Blood was hidden now in the depths of the darkness. And even the dull glint of the terrifying Mountain of Needles was far down beneath his feet. At this rate, it might be easier than he had imagined to climb his way out of Hell. Twining his hands in the spider thread, Kandata laughed aloud as he had not in all the years since he had come to this place: “I've done it! I've done it!”

And then what do you think he saw? Far down on the spider thread, countless sinners had followed after him, and they were clambering up the thread with all their might like a column of ants! The sight struck him with such shock and fear that for a time his mouth gaped open like an idiot's; only his eyes moved. This slim thread seemed likely to snap from his weight alone: how could it possibly hold so many people? If it were to break midway, then Kandata himself would plummet back down into the Hell he had struggled so mightily to escape. How terrible that would be! Still, from the pitch-dark Pond of Blood, an unbroken column of sinners came squirming up the fragile, gleaming thread by the hundreds—by the thousands. He knew he would have to do something now or the thread would break in two.

Kandata screamed at them, “Listen to me, you sinners! This spider thread is
mine
! Who said
you
could climb it? Get off! Get off!”

At that very instant the spider thread, which until then had been perfectly fine, broke with a “snap!” just where Kandata was hanging from it. Before he could even cry out, Kandata fell, slicing through the air, spinning like a top, down head-first into the darkest depths.

Behind him all that remained was the dangling short end of the spider thread from Paradise, delicately gleaming in the moonless, starless sky.

The lotuses of the Lotus Pond, however, were unperturbed. They swayed their perfect pearl-white blossoms near the feet of Lord Shakyamuni, and from their golden centers wafted forth each time a never-ending fragrance wonderful beyond description. I think it must have been close to noon in Paradise.

Surely this is why he was left unscathed by his encounter with that midnight procession of goblins so often seen at the lonely intersection of Nij
ō
-
Ō
miya in the Capital;
²
it is also why, when rumor had it that the ghost of T
ō
ru, Minister of the Left, was appearing night after night at the site of his ruined mansion by the river at Higashi-Sanj
ō
(you must know it: where the
minister had recreated the famous seascape of Shiogama in his garden), it took only a simple rebuke from His Lordship to make the spirit vanish.
³
In the face of such resplendent majesty, no wonder all residents of the Capital—old and young, men and women—revered His Lordship as a reincarnation of the Buddha. One time, it is said, His Lordship was returning from a plum-blossom banquet at the Palace when the ox pulling his carriage got loose and injured an old man who happened to be passing by. The old fellow knelt and clasped his hands in prayerful thanks for having been caught on the horns of His Lordship's own ox!

So many, many stories about His Lordship have been handed down. His Imperial Majesty himself once presented His Lordship with thirty pure white horses on the occasion of a New Year's banquet. Another time, when construction of the Nagara Bridge seemed to be running counter to the will of the local deity, His Lordship offered up a favorite boy attendant as a human sacrifice to be buried at the foot of a pillar.
⁴
And then there was the time when, to have a growth cut from his thigh, he summoned the Chinese monk who had brought the art of surgery to our country. Oh, there's no end to the tales! For sheer horror, though, none of them measures up to the story of the screen depicting scenes of hell which is now a prized family heirloom. Even His Lordship, normally so imperturbable, was horrified by what happened, and those of us who waited upon him—well, it goes without saying that we were shocked out of our minds. I myself had served as one of His Lordship's men for a full twenty years, but what I witnessed then was more terrible than anything I had ever—or
have
ever—experienced.

In order to tell you the story of the hell screen, however, I must first tell you about the painter who created it. His name was Yoshihide.