The Curse of Koshiu: A Chronicle of Old Japan

by Lewis Wingfield

He went, as we have seen, and in due course returned, so jubilant and radiant that even his glum master perforce believed in him. Their prayers were heard. The gods were sick of tyranny. The despot, blindfold, was marching to his fate. His foot was on the edge of the abyss. As the Fountain of Honour in his inspired wisdom had pointed out, Sampei was loyal to his chief, so far, but he was evidently full of disgust, uncertain what he ought to do, harried and worried, wretched. The citadel was more than half undermined already. He, the brilliant general, soldier to his finger nails, moved in a centre of undisciplined debauchery; listess, unshocked, uninterested. Why, a handful of ronins could take and sack in a trice the castle once deemed impregnable! The guards were wrapped in drunken sleep, the sentinels, absent from their posts, were engaged in uproarious wassail Not a peasant for miles around but would hail with joyous relief the advent of a new master; not a farmer or artizan but, with full faith in Koshiu's dying words, would look on No-Kami's downfall as retribution heaven-born. Nothing would be easier than, guided by peasants, to march trusty troops by night through the mountain defiles and take the castle by surprise. Sampei, half-hearted as he was, and preternaturally listless, would acquiesce in the inevitable (would be only too glad to do so), and, his brother slain--no longer tied by fealty--would appear in his true colours. In the absence of their hereditary chief, the braves of Tsu would lose their heads, throw down their arms. For the stronghold must fall in the absence of the Hojo, or the prestige that hung around his dignity might save him after all. Just see how cautiously and well-prepared were the plans of the veteran counsellor. Hojo must be summoned to Kiŷoto on some business; then sent back with a reproof, to fall into a skilfully-set trap. Admitted within the walls that were once his own--but which would have surrendered in his absence--he could be seized and bound, and, in this plight, covered with the green net of dishonour, be exhibited before awed crowds, as a sermon against vaulting ambition.

So fluent was the old man, so completely self-convinced, that the Mikado revived and sat up, while the eyes of the circle of kugés goggled in their heads with mingled admiration and alarm. No-Kami, as we have seen, was sent for in peremptory fashion. The Fountain suggested timidly that this was rash, perhaps; and then old Nara laughed loud and long and savagely.

"Time was, O Holy One!" he cried, with wagging headpiece, "when 'twas I who prated of prudence. Now I say be brave! There is naught to fear: his claws are cut. I have looked on him! There is terror in his bloodshot eyes, dread in his shaking hands and shuffling footsteps. The dying farmer called down a curse, and it works visibly, for his confidence in himself has gone--his belief in a lucky star!"

All this was vastly refreshing to the inhabitants of the palace, accustomed as they were to groaning. The Mikado, with mind at ease, sat on his lacquered chair within the white-curtained tent, and gave audience to all and sundry. The weather was bitterly cold.

A cutting wind blew down from the hills, sheeted last night with snow. Nevertheless, so benignantly disposed was he, that the Fountain of Honour ordered the shutters of the Great Hall to be removed, that those without might see him, and fall in ecstasy upon their faces. With a hibachi of fine bronze before him, clad in wadded robes with seven linings, his wizened visage was cut clear against the background by the towering black gauze leaf that he only of mortals was permitted to wear erect. Despite his wadding and his charcoal he was chilly; but what matters that when the heart is warm, the spirits high? The moment of triumph was approaching when he would claim an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth,--exact a cry of pain for each that himself had uttered. Since the despot was already so stricken by outraged Buddha as to be spiritless, he, the Fountain, would improve the occasion when the culprit arrived, in order that all might perceive and applaud the seasonable resumption of his free will and dignity. Openly now he discussed with assembled kugés each succeeding step. Troops were already moving silently, under cover of the dark, towards the castle. Others were approaching from afar in the direction of the central rendezvous. On the arrival of the culprit--news had already been received of his starting--he should be solemnly arraigned and admonished, then banished in disgrace to his lands at Tsu. There he would fall into the snare, be brought back with every mark of insult and ignominy to the capital--and then--and then! What was to happen after that was too delicious to be too promptly settled. It was a morsel to be turned over and over on the tongue, not swallowed with a gulp.

Both Fountain and attendant kugés were never weary now of discussing "what then?" Of course, the last thing of all was to be harakiri. This means of final exit he could justly claim by right of name and lineage. But before the final tragedy there might, if skilfully thought out, be endless shades of moral torture; and the kugés, squatting in a row, crumpled their foreheads and stared at the gold ceiling in the delightful travail of conception. Every one had an idea which required to be examined and considered, sifted, accepted, or rejected. Meanwhile the Fountain dribbled out wisdom, encouraged brains to nimbleness, distributed applause. One of the nobles had an inspiration, whereon all his fellows cackled. There was a punishment that none had endured for years, but which might be revived with advantage for the behoof of the fallen Hojo. In a public place, before the assembled populace, a series of the lowest and dirtiest Etas were to be placed in a long line, with straddled legs, and under the arcade thus formed--a pilgrimage of consummate degradation--the humbled noble, on hands and knees, was to be condemned to crawl. An admirable suggestion! Traitorous nobles condemned to this ordeal had been known to die from very shame--their soul crushed out of them, ere half the journey was accomplished. Sure the proud-stomached Hojo would not survive, and thus would go out of the world deprived of the honour of harakiri.

The Mikado, enchanted, could conjure up the scene. He longed for the moment to arrive when the culprit, erst so domineering, would shuffle in, nervous and unstrung. A new and charming sensation this to one who was wont himself to quiver. Yes, he longed for the moment, but the wretch should not be admitted at once. Certainly not. He should be shown his place; he who had ridden roughshod should be kept waiting in an ante-room. He----Hark! what sound was that? Rapid and dreadfully familiar? Could it indeed be? A footfall, too well known, was creaking quickly along the bare boards of the corridor. Shuffling, forsooth! it was as brisk and elastic as of yore. With a glance of dismayed reproach the Mikado turned to Nara, then concealed behind a fan his burning face. Nara frowned, surprised. The crouching kugés twittered.

Mice gambol when their hereditary foe is slumbering; then, when the green gleaming eyes re-open, scuffle into holes. For these poor mice there were no holes. The footstep was crunching--crunching on their hearts. Though it approached more near, more near, with dreadful swiftness, they might not move, since no shelter was at hand, and they had not wings to fly. Alack! with idle presumption they had uncorked a bottle, and out had popped a gin that spread his bat's pinions over the sky with stifling sulphurous stench.

Dread in his shaking hand indeed! Oh, Nara! Nara! Peeping nervously between his fan-sticks, as the commanding figure that he knew too well darkened the doorway, the Fountain of Honour perceived a threatening outline in which there was no sign of decadence. As with hand lightly poised on hip, and proud head raised, the Hojo strode into the Presence, the Mikado marked that he was pale and thin, but his eye, if bloodshot, was piercing as ever--fierce as the untamed eagle's. That Nara, who boasted of experience and acumen, should be so grievously taken in. Well, well! it was all the fault of that old fool. The embroglio was of his making; it must be for him to get them out of the hobble.

But Nara, save for a deepening line between the brows, and teeth that bit the lip, seemed unaware of the apparition. Red and wrinkled lids blinked over glazed eyes which stared stonily into space from under a white and shaggy penthouse. The Daimio of Tsu, erect and menacing, glanced slowly down at the assembled lords, who, with bent backs, were contemplating the floor--then at the fan and bundle of silks which concealed the Fountain of Honour--then at the crowd without, who stood with craned necks on the verandahs, or grouped about the garden. From between his fan-sticks the Mikado followed the motions of the despot with increasing trepidation.