HŌRAI

Blue vision of depth lost in height — sea and sky intermixing through luminous haze. The day is of spring, and the hour morning.

Only sky and sea — one azure enormity. In the foreground, ripples are catching a silvery light, and threads of foam are swirling. But a little further off no motion is visible, nor anything except color: dim warm blue water widening away to melt into blue air. Horizon, there is none: only distance soaring into space — infinite concavity hollowing before you, and hugely arching above you — the color deepening with the height. But far in the midway blue, there hangs a faint, faint vision of palace towers, with high roofs horned and curved like moons — some shadowing of splendor strange and old, illumined by a sunshine soft as memory.

What I have thus been trying to describe is a kakémono,⁵¹ that is to say, a Japanese painting on silk, suspended on the wall of my alcove and the name of it is “Shinkirō,” which means “mirage.” But the shapes of the mirage are unmistakable. Those are the glimmering portals of Hōrai the Blest;⁵² and those are the moony roofs of the palace of the Dragon King; and their style (though drawn by a Japanese brush of today) is the style of things Chinese, twenty-one hundred years ago. Thus, much is told of the place in the Chinese books of that time.

In Hōrai there is neither death nor pain; and there is no winter. The flowers in that place never fade, and the fruits never fail; and if a man tastes those fruits even once, he can never again feel thirst or hunger. In Hōrai grow the enchanted plants So-rin-shi, Riku-gō-aoi, and Ban-kon-tō, which heal all manner of sickness — and there also grows the magical grass, Yo-shin-shi, that revives the dead; and the magical grass is watered by a fairy water of which a single drink confers perpetual youth. The people of Hōrai eat their rice out of very, very small bowls; but the rice never diminishes within those bowls — however much of it be eaten — until the eater desires no more. And the people of Hōrai drink their wine out of very, very small cups; but no man can empty one of those cups — however stoutly he may drink — until the pleasant drowsiness of intoxication comes upon him.

All this and more is told in the legends of the time of the Shin dynasty; although, that the people who wrote down those legends ever saw Hōrai, even in a mirage, is not believable. For really, there are no enchanted fruits that leave the eater forever satisfied — nor any magical grass that revives the dead — nor any fountain of fairy water — nor any bowls that never lack rice, — nor any cups that never lack wine. It is not true that sorrow and death never enter Hōrai — neither is it true that there is not any winter. The winter in Hōrai is cold — the winds bite to the bone, and the heaping of snow on the roofs of the Dragon-King is monstrous.

Nevertheless, there are wonderful things in Hōrai; and the most wonderful of all has not been mentioned by any Chinese writer. I mean the atmosphere of Hōrai. It is an atmosphere unique to the place, and because of it, the sunshine in Hōrai is whiter than any other sunshine — a milky light that never dazzles — astonishingly clear, but very soft. This atmosphere is not of our human era: it is enormously old — so old that I feel afraid when I try to think how old it is — and it is not a mixture of nitrogen and oxygen. It is not made of air at all — but of ghost — the substance of quintillions of quintillions of gener- ations of souls, blended into one immense translucency — souls of people who thought in ways never resembling our ways. If a mortal man inhales that atmosphere, he takes the thrilling of these spirits into his blood; and they change the sense within him — reshaping his notions of space and time — so that he can see only as they used to see, and feel only as they used to feel, and think only as they used to think. Soft as sleep are these changes of sense; and Hōrai, discerned across them, might thus be described:

Because in Hōrai there is no knowledge of great evil, the hearts of the people never grow old. And, by reason of being always young in heart, the people of Hōrai smile from birth until death — except when the Gods send sorrow among them; and faces are then veiled until the sorrow goes away. All folk in Hōrai love and trust each other, as if all were members of a single household — and the speech of the women is like birds singing, because their hearts are as light as the souls of birds — and the swaying of the sleeves of the maidens at play seems like the fluttering of wide, soft wings. In Hōrai nothing is hidden but grief, because there is no reason for shame — and nothing is locked away, because there could not be any theft — and by night as well as by day all doors remain unbarred, because there is no reason for fear. And because the people are fairies — though mortal — all things in Hōrai, except the palace of the Dragon King, are small and quaint and strange — and these fairy-folk really do eat their rice out of very, very small bowls, and drink their wine out of very, very small cups.

Much of this seeming would be due to the inhalation of that ghostly atmosphere — but not all. For the spell wrought by the dead is only the charm of an ideal, the glamour of an ancient hope; and something of that hope has found fulfillment in many hearts — in the simple beauty of unselfish lives — in the sweetness of women.

Evil winds from the West are blowing over Hōrai; and the magical atmosphere, alas, is shrinking away before them. It lingers now only in patches and bands — like those long bright bands of clouds that trail across the landscapes of Japanese painters. Under these shreds of the elfish vapor you still can find Hōrai — but not everywhere. Remember that Hōrai is also called “Shinkirō,” which means mirage — the Vision of the Intangible. And the Vision is fading — never again to appear except in pictures and poems and dreams. 

(From The Annotated Kwaidan by Lafcadio Hearn, Edited and Illustrated by Hayato Tokugawa, Copyright 2017 by Hayato Tokugawa and Shisei-Do Publications.)

KAPPAS: A LEGEND REVEALED

KAPPAS: A LEGEND REVEALED

Igor and "Kappa."

 Meet Igor the dog and his very special friend Kappa. You will all agree that it is a charming photo of a dog and his otter friend; however, the photograph caused me to pause for a moment and think. Perhaps it was fortuitous that not only did I see the cute picture, but that the otter’s name is of all things “Kappa!”

For those of you unfamiliar with the word “kappa,” allow me to take a moment to explain. A kappa (河童, literally “river child”), also known as a kawako (川虎, literally “river tiger”, is a yōkai (demon) or imp found in traditional Japanese folklore.

  

 A ceramic female kappa and children in the town square in Tajimi, Japan.

The name is a combination of the words kawa (river) and wappa, a variant form of 童 warawa (also warabe) “child.” In Shintō they are considered to be one of many suijin (水神), or “water deities”). A hairy kappa is called a hyōsube (ひょうすべ). In Japanese Buddhism they are considered to be a kind of hungry ogre. Kappa are especially noted for having a small pool or “bowl” of water situated on top of their head, signifying, and by some legends, holding their life force.

  

 Various forms of Umagappa, the kappa mascot of Tajimi, Japan.

Now, as many of you may know, I have a special affinity for kappa, and have included them in my “Nekojins” cartoons.

  

 From "My Neighbors the Nekojins" featuring Vinnie Nekojin and his kappa friend fishing together.

You may also know that I also have a special affinity for otters as evidenced by the “Nekojin” cartoon character “Otto,” a North American river otter who stowed away in a backpack at San Francisco’s Land’s End, only to be discovered later and adopted into the family.

  

 From "My Neighbors the Nekojins," Otto the North American river otter and his teddy bear.

That having been said, as I looked at the photo of Igor and Kappa, I had what might be called a type of epiphany — both a realization and a question. Could otters actually be kappa? I read and questioned, read some more, and have arrived at the realization that they probably are. The following is my theory on the matter: 

Museum display of a Japanese river otter.

Kappa, the legendary “river children” are indeed otters; specifically, they are (or were) Japanese river otters (Lutra lutra whiteleyi) or 日本川獺 (Nihon-kawauso). I say “were,” because they are no longer. The Japanese river otter is an extinct variety of otter which at one time was quite widespread in Japan. Reports by Westerners of them living in the Tokyō area go back to the 1880s. The Japanese otter population (not unlike the otter populations along the west coast of North America, and particularly California) suddenly declined drastically in the 1930s and also as in California, nearly vanished. In more recent times, Japanese otters have only been spotted in the Seto Island Sea (1964) and in the Uwa Sea (1972 – 1973). The last time one was officially reported as having been seen was in the southern part of Lochi Prefecture in 1979, photographed in the mouth of the Shinjo River in Susaki. Alas, that was the last photograph. The otters were then classified as “Critically Endangered” and on August 28, 2012, the Japanese river otter was officially declared extinct by the Ministry of Environment.

   

Reported to be the last photograph taken of a Japanese river otter.

Fully grown, A Japanese otter was between 25.5 and 31.5 inches long with a tail measuring 17.5 – 19.5 inches long. They had thick, luxurious fur, dark brown in color and had short, webbed and “fingered” feet and hands. Studies prior to their extinction revealed that the otters had two types of fur. They would shed their under fur from May to August and after that they would shed their guard hair from August to November, allowing them to adjust to the changing of seasons. Information obtained from past studies indicated that the otters had a lifespan of up to 25 years and historically, there were thousands of river otters in Japan.

  

 A pre-Meiji chart showing various types of kappa.

The kappa is typically depicted as roughly humanoid in form and about the size of a child, also between 25.5 and 31.5 inches long. While descriptions vary from region to region, it is sometimes described as having scaly reptilian skin. Now, an otter with a full coat, which is quite wet, shimmers and the fur can in fact look like longish, shiny scales. Kappa purportedly inhabit the ponds and rivers of Japan (typical otter habitat), and have various features to aid them in this environment, such as webbed hands (with fingers) and feet (with toes) — just like otters. They are sometimes said to smell like fish (no surprise there for anyone who knows otters) and they can swim like them as well. Again with the regional differences in descriptions of kappa, their alleged appearance has varied and has included a beak, a shell, and a plate (sara), a flat hairless region on the top of the head that is always wet. Some legends have referred to this area as actually being a bowl of sorts, containing water, which is regarded as the source of the kappa’s power. This “bowl” must be full whenever a kappa is away from the water; if it ever dries out, the kappa loses its power and may even die. I have often observed otters first hand with sea weed or various forms of water vegetation on their heads and they are known to, from time to time, balance objects are their head — for fun.

  

 North American otter balancing a rock or "bowl" on top of his head.

Now I cannot fully address the appearance of a shell but one might suspect that what were reported as kappas with shells were actually turtles of some size or tortoises. That would also explain the reported “beaks,” which are apparent particularly when a turtle pokes his head out of the water. Otter noses themselves can vary from a whitish pink to black as well as in size. I submit to you that the schnoz of an otter, depending on size and color, could be mistaken for a beak; perhaps most particularly by fishermen who have been enjoying sake during warm days of fishing.

While they are primarily water creatures, kappa do on occasion, and according to legend, venture on to land. So do otters, and while on land, both kappas and otters both are usually seen as mischievous troublemakers or tricksters. For kappas, their pranks range from the relatively innocent, such as looking up women’s kimonos, to the malevolent, such as drowning people and animals, kidnapping children, raping women and at times eating human flesh — pretty treacherous for such little guys. Not so for otters! Playful tricksters yes — malefactors no! Folk beliefs claim the cucumber as the traditional favorite meal of kappas. Otters, I will admit, are not overly fond of cucumbers and prefer fish or such kibble as Meow Mix.

  

 A kappa by Toryama Sekien, c. 1780.

It is said that kappa are curious about human civilization, as are otters. Scuba diving in Monterey Bay, I have experienced otters coming right up to me and peering through my mask, or reaching out to touch it or even me. While kayaking in the same region, considered “otter rich,” I have even had them climb up onto my boat to explore or even hitch a ride. It is also widely stated that kappa understand and speak Japanese. I think this is just a regional phenomenon as sea and river otters in California and elsewhere who have exposure to humans appear to understand to some degree or other whatever the regional language may be. They do “speak” in series of squeaks and clicks, which, with time and study, can be interpreted to mean various things. Kappa may even befriend human beings in exchange for gifts or offerings of nasu (茄子, Japanese eggplant), soba (そば or 蕎麦, buckwheat noodles), nattō (なっとう or 納豆, fermented soybeans) (there is no accounting for taste), or kabocha (カボチャ, 南瓜, winter squash), but especially cucumbers, the only food kappa are known to enjoy more than human children. While otters do not eat children and don’t seem to care for cucumbers or natto, they do enjoy and appreciate gifts of fish and with frequent exposure to humans can become quite friendly and playful.

It’s been a long time since anyone has reported seeing a kappa or an otter. Beginning in the Meiji era, the Japanese government opted for a policy of increased wealth and military strength. Otter pelts became quite valuable as a money-making export and populations declined. They did make a slight comeback after the creation of hunting regulations; but even so, as one might now expect in hindsight, pollution and human development damaged their environment; thus, the resources needed to build habitats and to obtain food. Compelled to seek adequate food sources, the otters were forced into more dangerous settings which in due course, resulted in the extinction of the Japanese river otter in the late 20^th century.

  

 A Japanese postage stamp depicting a Japanese river otter, issued in 1974.

There may be however, a glimmer of hope for the otter, and I think therefore the kappa. Throughout the 1990s there were several official attempts to locate a surviving Japanese river otter. In December of 1991 the Environmental Agency of Japan, working with the government of Kochi Prefecture, put together a research team of otter experts (not necessarily themselves experts on kappa) and began the search. It was in March of the next year that the research group discovered hair and excrement in the Kochi region believed to have come from an otter. They also located three footprints and additional ten excrement samples. An analysis of the cross-section of the hair determined that the fur did in fact come from an otter – solid scientific evidence that the Japanese river otter, and I suspect the kappa, still existed in Japan at that time.

  

 North American river otter in meditation.

So there it is and there you have it. Knowing how Japanese people love to listen to and to tell tales, and knowing how such stories can be embellished as they are told and retold, is it any wonder then that the Japanese river otter became kappa? I think not.

PATIENTLY WAITING FOR THE PLEASURES OF SPRING

Patiently waiting for the pleasures of spring...

Natsume Soseki’s London: A Literary Odyssey

Natsume Soseki’s London: A Literary Odyssey

2016 marks the beginning of two years of anniversary commemorations for Natsume Soseki, the greatest literary figure of modern Japan: 2016 marks the centennial of his death in 1916; and 2017 marks the 150th anniversary of his birth in 1867. Damian Flanagan will show us the boarding houses that Soseki lived in, located in different parts of the city, and introduce us to the people that Soseki met and lived amongst. Join us for a literary odyssey round London like no other, that will make you see the capital through entirely fresh, Sosekian eyes.

Please grab a cup of coffee or tea and some snacks, and sit back, relax and enjoy the story.

A FINAL ACT OF LOVE

A FINAL ACT OF LOVE

     An unusual, horrible, yet at the same time wonderful and touching, took place on the coast of Germany on January 11th — a love story of gigantic proportions with a tragic ending. One of the characteristics of whales, as we understand them, is that when a female and a male find each other and mate, it is for life — forever together, perhaps even beyond this world as it should be.

     Off the coast of Norway, a female sperm whale had a freak encounter with an old mine left over from World War II. She was badly hurt, her lungs damaged, and she sought a sandy place to rest at least, if not to pass on in peace. As she swam, her mate kept company with her, rather than continuing on with the gam or herd on their annual migration.

No, he never left her, not for one moment and when his mate beached herself, he too followed onto the shore beside her and although uninjured, stayed by her side until he also passed on.

     We know so little about whales or for that matter the other “giants” that inhabit this world with us, the elephants. Who among us knew or even imagined that these creatures were capable of such courage, compassion and devotion to one another — yes, even love? Certainly not I, although I am beginning to learn. And who among us, who regard our species as the “masters of the world” are truly capable of a similar act?

FLOWER BLOSSOMS IN THE HEAVENS By Aoi Tokugawa

FLOWER BLOSSOMS IN THE HEAVENS

By

Aoi Tokugawa

     As was his habit, Takashi Nagai arose before sunrise, ate a modest breakfast, and then dressed in his kokumin fuku, his "national clothes," the quasi-military uniform mandated as standard wear for Japanese men, particularly those engaged in public service. After hanging the canteen of water, which his wife had lovingly prepared for him, over his shoulder, he slid open the front door to his home, looked out, and took a deep breath. The rays of the sun were strong, even in the early morning; seven o'clock and already it was hot and humid - a very Nagasaki summer's day. Even now, a line of sweat was forming on his shirt at his waist.

     "It's going to be so hot today," he murmured in a low voice and shaking his head, as if talking to no one but himself. Then he turned to his wife.

     Alright, I'm going now. I don't know what time I'll be back; but Midori, listen to me. If the air raid siren sounds, run away. I don't care where. I don't care if our house burns. I only care about you. As soon as you can, run away quickly."

     Midori, already dressed in gaily-colored monpe, comfortable, loose-fitting pants and a matching tunic that resembled pajamas more than the work clothes they were, and ready to do some gardening, simply nodded and grasped the white, Catholic rosary beads that hung around her neck. "I'll be just fine," she said, looking up at her husband with a smile. Remember my Christian name is 'Maria,' and Christ is with me. Really, I'll be just fine. Don't worry. Please take care of yourself."

     Takashi, a bit more pragmatic than his wife, and thus not quite as certain, simply smiled at Midori, touched her shoulder, then turned and headed for the bus station. All the while, Midori stood at the door and watched her husband until his form disappeared from view. She gave a small sigh, then turned, and walked back into the house.

     As he walked along the road toward the bus stop, Takashi looked around his neighborhood. Here and there, smoke drifted up from some of the houses along his way as families prepared breakfast; the aroma of cooking food riding on the hot morning breeze. He stopped for a minute and gazed at the skyline of Mt. Konpira and Urakami Village in the clear, early morning sunlight. Thin clouds drifted across the pastel sky, as if rendered in the style of the old prints and paintings: a view of which he never tired.

     Twenty-five minutes later, he arrived at the Nagasaki Medical College where he first checked into his small office in the Outpatient Clinic on the second floor, read his messages, and then left to teach his first class of the day as an associate professor. Shortly before eleven o'clock, he was back at his desk, just getting comfortable and preparing to sort through a stack of x-ray photographs, when he thought he heard a sound outside, somewhere in the distance. Takashi stood up, walked to the window, and peered out into the bright day. The sky was still the pastel blue of Japan, the same sky that one can see in countless prints by Hiroshige and Hokusai; but now a large, thick cloud hovered over Urakami Catholic Cathedral.

     He listened. There it was: a sound, which seemed to be coming from somewhere above the cloud. The noise then faded away. He listened again. Yes, there it was, a dull buzzing, which gradually grew into a low-pitched roar. "A B-29?" he wondered. "Yes, that must be it." He had heard them with increasing frequency during the past few weeks as they made their way north to Honshu: Osaka and Tokyo. He looked upward and squinted against the sun's glare; but he couldn't see the now familiar silhouette of the American bomber. There was only the drone of the approaching engines - growing louder - growing closer. Takashi remained by the window for another few moments, hoping to catch a glimpse of the giant plane.

     At 11:02, there occurred a sudden, brilliant flash of light - white light - followed in an instant by a tremendous blast. He was violently thrown into the air amid a mass of broken wood and sharp glass shards as the window imploded. As if in a dream, a surreal scene, he drifted in  slow motion through a sea of rubble; a bed, bookshelves and their contents, pieces of paper, chunks of galvanized metal, plaster, and wood danced through the air in random motions with a brontide, that unearthly, low rumbling thunder-like noise, caused by earthquakes so familiar to anyone who lived in Japan, throbbing in the background. Just as suddenly, the nightmare ended and both he and the rubble fell to the floor.

     Takashi was buried. His eyes were open; yet, he couldn't see, as though he were a blind person. As he lay there, beneath the wreckage, he wondered what had happened. He could feel something, as if warm water was inching, trickling down to his neck from the right side of his head - but there was no pain. Was he alive or dead? At that very instant of thought, all sound stopped. There was nothing but darkness and silence: the perfect silence of the mu world - the empty underworld of legend.

     "Takashi-san! Takashi-san! Takashi-san!"

     He heard a voice calling to him out of the dark void.

     "Takashi-san! Takashi-san! Takashi-san!"

     He could hear it clearer now - his wife's voice in the darkness.

     "Midori!" he called out - at least he thought he heard himself call out. "Run away!"

     "I am alright. I am with Christ. My name is 'Maria.'"

     "Where are you?" he called out. "Midori, where are you?"

     Fireworks burst across the darkness, like a chrysanthemum-burst of light; and there was his beloved Midori standing amid the beautiful lights, dressed in a blue monpe and white blouse: the same clothes she had worn so many years ago when they went to watch summer fireworks together for the first time. Behind her, beautiful colored flowers of light flashed and disappeared, only to reappear and disappear, again and again. A spark fell on her, but she just stood there smiling.

     "Midori! Watch out! Come here!" Takashi reached out for his wife, but she did not move.

     "Takashi-san. It's so beautiful here. Do you understand? The fireworks are for the repose of the souls of those who have died. I am here, waiting for you."

     Again, the fireworks flashed, and when they had disappeared, so had Midori. Takashi simply lay there, not knowing how much time had passed, if he was alive or dead, if it was day or night.

     "Nagai-sensei! Nagai-sensei!" It was the voice of his assistant. He strained to regain his consciousness. He felt hands on him - human hands; and he suddenly realized he was alive and being pulled from the detritus by his assistant and others from the medical school. Reality slowly returned and he realized that he was in trouble. He knew now a vein, at his right temple, had been cut. Summoning all his faculties, he ripped his own shirt apart and fashioned a bandage to bind it. Then, he stood up and set to work; there were other victims, much worse off than he was, who needed his help - he was alive, and he was a doctor of medicine.

     A day later, dirty, his clothes stained with soot and blood, exhausted and barely able to stand, Takashi slowly made his way home. The sun rose as usual from Mt. Konpira and gave its blessing of light to the earth; yet, there was no life left in Urakami Village to receive the benediction. With an effort, he eventually reached the burnt ruins of his home and called for his wife. There was no answer, only the terrible roar of silence. He continued to call out to her as he began digging through the destruction. It was then that his worst fears were realized. There, amid the scorched timbers, lay the charred bones of poor Midori, her melted rosary with its cross, still around her neck.

     He clutched the prayer beads in his hands and then slumped in grief over his dear wife's body. No one knows for how long he remained like that, until a neighbor at last pulled him away.

     Some years later, the poet Sato Hachiro would write:

My wife was called to Heaven by God.

She left me for that world.

As a memory of her, she left her rosary.

My white tears on the rosary's chain - 

Ah, the bells of Nagasaki ring.

Comfort and encouragement for Nagasaki.

     Takashi Nagai later wrote of the bells of Nagasaki [1]:

     These are the bells that did not ring for weeks or months after the disaster. May there never be a time when they do not ring! May they ring out this message of peace until the morning of the day on which the world ends.

     This year [2012], fire flowers will blossom in the night sky over Nagasaki, again to console the victims. It is the sixty-seventh summer since the bombings of the city.

     Takashi Nagai, even though ill and slowly dying from leukemia, a direct result of the radiation from the bomb that fell on Nagasaki, dedicated the remainder of his life to prayer and service to the other victims. He died on May 1, 1951. Midori and Takashi's son, Makoto, and daughter, Kayano, survived their mother and father, having been evacuated to another town.

[1]  The Bells of Nagasaki, written by Takashi Nagai in 1949, was refused publication in post-war Japan on the orders of General MacArthur and his GHQ administration until an appendix was added, which described alleged atrocities in the Philippines. This appendix was later removed.


Translated and edited by Tokugawa H.

COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Aoi Tokugawa and Shisei-Dō Publications. Japanese version Copyright © 2012 by Aoi Tokugawa and Shisei-Dō Publications.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States and Japan by Shisei-Dō Publications. No part of this publication may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without prior written permission of the author or publisher, except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.