Glossary of terms (in order of appearance)

 

Komuso-gasa: The basket-like helms of the Komuso monks.

Komuso monks: Mendicant priest of the Fuke sect of Zen Buddhism. They were characterized by their wearing of a straw basket hiding their head (a sedge or reed hood named a tengai), as a manifest of the absence of specific ego

Ronin: A masterless samurai.

Paddy-field: A flooded parcel of arable land used for growing rice and other semi-aquatic crops.

Bu: Edo period currency. Worth 1/4th a ryo (a ryo being a substantial amount of money to the average person).

Edo: Renamed Tokyo in 1868.

Kitsune & Raccoon-dogs: Mischievous fox & raccoon spirits (Japanese Folklore).

Otoki: Meal offered by the relatives following a Japanese funeral.

Bodhisattva: From Buddhism. An enlightened being who, out of compassion, forgoes nirvana in order to save others.

Jizō: A bodhisattva. In Japan, Kṣitigarbha, known as Jizō, or Ojizō-sama as he is respectfully known, is one of the most loved of all Japanese divinities. His statues are a common sight, especially by roadsides and in graveyards. Traditionally, he is seen as the guardian of children, particularly children who died before their parents. In Japanese mythology, it is said that the souls of children who die before their parents are unable to cross the mythical Sanzu River on their way to the afterlife because they have not had the chance to accumulate enough good deeds and because they have made the parents suffer. It is believed that Jizō saves these souls from having to pile stones eternally on the bank of the river as penance, by hiding them from demons in his robe, and letting them hear mantras. Jizō statues are usually accompanied by a little pile of stones and pebbles, put there by people in the hope that it would shorten the time children have to suffer in the underworld (the act is derived from the tradition of building stupas as an act of merit-making) . The statues can sometimes be seen wearing tiny children’s clothing or bibs, or with toys, put there by grieving parents to help their lost ones and hoping that Jizō would specially protect them. Sometimes the offerings are put there by parents to thank Jizō for saving their children from a serious illness. As he is seen as the savior of souls who have to suffer in the underworld, his statues are common in cemeteries.

The Floating World by RivalFerrets

 

Masuyo, heedless to the tempest gales that resisted his every step, strode casually down the unfamiliar road with no destination in mind. The wind whistled through the cracks in the basket-like komuso-gasa he wore on his head and funneling into his ears with its countless whispers, the sleepy voice of nature provided his only companionship on the lonely journey. Small vertical slits in the komuso-gasa opened into shadowy glimpses of the face concealed beneath the tightly-woven straw. The helm dominated his face, the only breach being a tangled mass of torn-straw that left his chin and hints of a strong-set jawline bare to the fury of nature. The exposed skin, criss-crossed with thin pale lines, stood as a road-map (and word of caution) to passing travelers of the bloody and violent past of their bearer. Wearing the traditional garb of the komuso monks, those who considered themselves “monks of nothingness”, was not uncommon among samurai and ronin who wished to travel unnoticed, but stealth was of no concern to Masuyo, who wore his swords openly, their tattered sheaths scratching against the simple fabric of his stained and weathered kimono. To him, it was simply something left behind by a friend, now long-dead, to be used for its most base purpose, shielding him from the elements.

The simple road skirted a column of enormous forest mountains, their peaks just visible over the towering stretches of bamboo that blurred in the wind to both sides of him. The ancient stand of bamboo drew closer to the road as he continued and eventually the mountains disappeared, leaving nothing to exist in Masuyo’s world but the path, the bamboo, and the wind. Thickening as he advanced, the forest canopy cast an artificial night over the natural tunnel. He crested a slight incline in the path and in the distance he could make out the glow of sunlight falling onto an open plain of paddy-fields.
As he neared the point where the bamboo gave way to field, the wind began to die down and the soft creaking of the settling trees sounded like hushed voices in the distance.

The breeze carried the scent of the nearby sea across the paddy-fields and Masuyo was overwhelmed with a feeling of nostalgia and then confusion as he pushed his homesick feelings aside. The road he followed shadowed the main road from Kyoto to Edo, had it veered off so much that he was near the ocean? He followed the road another few miles and upon spotting a small group of men harvesting rice, stopped to inquire about the location. The country dialect was thick, but Masuyo had no problems following the stuttered speech of the old man who answered him and upon learning he was near Niihama, he understood why. Niihama was on the coast, just across from Nii Ōshima, the small island he had been born on. Niihama was also hundreds of miles from where he should have been. In his confusion the homesick feeling returned and this time Masuyo could not push it away. He asked the old man to point him towards Niihama, and handing the farmer a few coins, continued off, alone again, his tears hidden by the komuso-gasa.

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The ferry-ride from Niihama to Nii Ōhad given Masuyo time to think, but standing within sight of his parents’ small house, he had yet to make sense of anything. Had he never left Nii Ō, he probably would have attributed the strange events around his homecoming to kitsuneor raccoon-dogs, but his life as a samurai-turned-wanderer had led him to seek the more logical explanations, that which currently eluded him. Standing before the door, he removed his sandals and the komuso-gasa, his unrestrained black locks falling in his face. He hesitated for a moment before the wooden plaque reading Imagawa, the family name he had given up so long ago. He had taken a new first name and the Aokage surname upon adoption into his samurai family. Sliding the door open, he entered his childhood home.

He called the names of his parents, conscious to how strange his voice would probably sound to them. A noise led him into the small kitchen at the back of the house, but upon investigating he found nothing but a half-eaten meal of raw food laid out upon the simple table and the lingering aroma of cooking. This was worrying to Masuyo. Meals were prepared raw when someone was sick in the belief that the life within the food would remain and foster the ill person back to health. The smell of the kitchen bothered him more, however, as a great deal of food would always be prepared for a funeral. His life had made him accustomed to the loss of those he held close to his heart, but the sudden thought of one of his parents ill or gone filled him with a deep melancholy. He wondered if something happening to his parents could have had any connection to his mysterious arrival near Niihama. He thought it doubtful.

He searched the rest of the home, calling out to his parents, but there was no one to answer him. He found himself at the threshold of what had once been his room. His parents had kept it exactly as he remembered it, which to Masuyo, gave the room an eerie antiquated quality. His eyes were drawn to the dreaded futon that had served as a prison whenever the chest-pains of his youth had flared up. On the floor beside the futon large bundles of paper lay in orderly stacks. He recognized them instantly, his father’s stories.

When Masuyo had been bed-ridden, his father would read to him everyday. At first it had been the standards: tales of Prince Yamato Takeru, the gods’ creation of Japan, Amaterasu’s feud with her brother, and any other story his father could recite by memory or attain in writing. He remembered begging his father to come up with his own stories when they had run out of others’ and his father had complied, dedicating himself to the task. At the time it had meant the world to Masuyo, but through the years he had come to resent his father for such irresponsibility. His father had worked for the village leader, managing a ledger on the changes of population and arable land that was delivered to the Edo government, but he quit and took up odd jobs in order to spend more time on his stories. Some weeks he didn’t work at all, doing nothing but writing and reading to Masuyo in the evenings before bed. It didn’t seem right to him that his mother had been forced to carry the household by herself.

He picked up one of the bundles and began to leaf through the pages. He was mostly illiterate and although only able to understand the more rudimentary characters, he recognized most of the stories by what little he could read. His fathers stories flashed in his mind like vibrant memories: the tales of the old shogun, the wandering samurai and his monk companion, the countless ghost stories. His father had been fond of ghost stories, always telling him with a wink that the village graveyard was haunted. “The graveyard.” He stopped his reverie. He realized if the preparations in the kitchen had been for a funeral, his parents, dead or alive, would be at the graveyard. He rushed outside for his sandals and tried to convince himself he would find them both alive, walking home from a neighbor or friend’s funeral and headed to the home of the deceased’s relatives for the otokimeal.

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It was nearing dusk by the time he left town. The small path leading out towards the graveyard was striped in the dying shadows of the great oaks that stood at intervals to each side. A tributary cut through the path ahead and in the dim light Masuyo could make out a man standing just before the simple wooden bridge. The man wore a sword and so instinctively Masuyo kept his eyes on the man’s hands as he approached. “Toll here is two bu, traveler.” Masuyo’s hand, in a swift, smooth motion, went to the hilt of his katana, his only response as he continued walking. The man grinned, a show of confidence Masuyo attributed to the presence of the three other men attempting to hide in the umbral fingers of the landscape. The oaks erupted with the protesting calls of birds, disturbed by the sharp sounds of steel sliding across lacquered wood as five swords were drawn simultaneously. The bandits, forming a crude circle around him, screamed as they charged. Masuyo remained silent and composed, his relaxed sword-stance a serene contrast to the impending moment where life or death would be decided. Masuyo’s experience and training took over and his body surged in a violent outburst of movement. The katana felt alive in his hand, its steel arc splitting flesh and bone. It was over in an instant. Masuyo cleaned the blade with the sleeve of his kimono, leaving dark streaks on the light colored wool. He glanced at the four men on the ground, leaves and feathers falling into the crimson pools that covered their bodies, and returning his katana to its scabbard, continued on his way.

The path was covered in black pitch, barely pierced by the light of the moon that filtered through the trees as Masuyo walked out of sight of the small bridge. Away from the tributary, the path ran alongside the main river. It was the sound of the water Masuyo followed through the darkness until the path came into a clearing, where the graveyard nestled into a large curve of the river that glowed from the unhindered moonlight. In front of the ruined temple a weathered statue of the bodhisattvaJizō as a lonely sentry to the sacred grounds, a toy wooden sword laying among the pebbles at his feet. The worn eyes of the statue seemed to regard Masuyo with sympathy. Beyond the statue, the graveyard stretched to the riverbank, a few older grave-markers sinking with the eroding coastline.

A glimmer of light behind the temple caught his eye. A figure alight in soft hues was kneeling before a row of monuments. Masuyo, instinctively, ducked behind the statue of Jizōand confident that he was hidden, peered around the edge. It was just a man, a lantern next to him on the ground providing the ghostly light. He cursed himself for allowing his father’s stories to still get him after so many years. Stepping out from behind the statue Masuyo approached the man. The man remained motionless and Masuyo stopped just behind him. Masuyo opened his mouth to speak, but the man turned suddenly, a look of bewilderment in his eyes. Masuyo, without thought, drew his sword and then, immediately dropped it. “Father?” His father didn’t respond, his sad eyes straining back and forth as if searching for something. “Father!?” His father turned back to the row of monuments and threw his head into his hands weeping. Masuyo brought his eyes up to the simple stone pillar that his father lay prostrate in front of. Shin Imagawa, age 11. His childhood name. A panic shot through him and he began to cough violently, clutching his mouth with his hands. It was his old familiar cough that racked his chest with pain and made breathing a struggle. He stretched his arms out for his father. The lantern illuminated his desperate reach and he gasped at his sickly arms. The thin arms of an ill child, his tiny hands covered in blood that snaked between his fingers and dripped onto the wooden sword laying in the grass. He fell to the ground screaming unheard apologies to the man whom he had resented, the man whom had provided a life for Shin after his body had taken it away.