“But I must, I will reach that land!” Vasobiove exclaimed.
His father, who was old and wise, begged him not to go.
“You will perish on the way,” he said sorrowfully. “But even if you reach and enter the islands, you will not be happy. That which is best for us is given to us, and after a long life, death is good.”
But Vasobiove shook his head and objected, “No, no! I go to the Everlasting Islands.” And the next day he set out from Nagasaki in a boat.
Straight southward he journeyed and eastward. Storms raged and tropic heat beat fiercely on his head, but he pressed onward, and at last, in spite of wave and tempest, reached the green shore of Horaisan. It was the land no mortal had ever entered, the Happy Islands of Everlasting Life.
Vasobiove’s cup of joy was full. There was no sorrow there, no birth or death, no tempest and black weather or flight of time—nothing but dancing, music, splendid men and beautiful women, with enchanted flowers of unfading beauty in the groves and gardens, and always iridescent reaches of the sea beyond. There were wrestling matches, such as were not dreamed of in Nagasaki, long days filled with feasting, and long nights of dance and song.
Vasobiove smiled the smile of the contented.
“At last!” he said. “It is good to know that I shall live forever.”
Two hundred years he spent in the eternal mirth of Horaisan, and then, somehow, he longed for other things. The music he had loved grew wearisome, the never ending dance became hateful to his eyes.