Pathway to Japanese Literature

Aoi no Mae

(Takakura)

At that time, the foremost example cited for elegance and grace was found among the attendants employed by the ladies-in-waiting serving at the Empress’s Residence—there existed an attendant called Aoi no Mae who served closely by His Majesty’s side.
Even when no urgent matters required summons, His Majesty would constantly call for her presence, leaving the Empress’s ladies-in-waiting unable to perform their duties until they came to treat Aoi no Mae as if she were their mistress.
“In old lullabies,” they would say, “‘Never grieve though you bear a daughter.’”
“Whether true or not that ‘A woman blessed by fortune may rise from consort to empress,’ people whispered privately that this lady would surely become recognized as an imperial consort—nay, empress—in time, referring to her as Lady Aoi when they gossiped.”
His Majesty eventually came to hear these rumors and ceased summon her as before.
This occurred not through any waning of imperial favor, but because His Majesty’s heart grew mindful of society’s censure.
Though his affection remained undiminished, His Majesty found no peace—so troubled was his spirit that he could scarcely partake of meals or find restful sleep.
Hearing of this distress, Regent Motofusa declared: “If matters weigh so heavily upon Your Majesty’s thoughts as to become burdensome, I must attend court to offer solace.” He hastened to the imperial residence and counseled: “Your Majesty cannot continue restraining yourself to avoid censure until your very heart grows troubled thus.”
“Summon her at once.”
“There is no need to inquire into her lineage or true sentiments.”
When Motofusa proposed, “This unworthy one shall arrange matters satisfactorily,” His Majesty responded: “Though history records such affairs occurring after abdication, never has a properly enthroned sovereign summoned such a companion.”
“Moreover,” he continued, “should I establish this precedent in my reign, it would become fodder for eternal ridicule.” Thus did he refuse compliance.
Finding himself powerless to persuade, the Lord Regent hurriedly boarded his carriage and departed.
On another occasion while practicing calligraphy, His Majesty found himself moved by the profound fragrance of green-hued paper—though recalling an ancient poem, he wondered if this very moment might embody its essence—

Though I conceal it, my love betrays itself in my countenance—
This became an imperial missive, which a trusted courtier of His Majesty then delivered to Aoi no Mae.
Overwhelmed by sorrow at having received it, Aoi no Mae pleaded indisposition to take leave, returned home, shut the shutters fast, and pressed the imperial letter to her breast and face as she grieved—until on the fourteenth day after her return, she finally perished.
His Majesty, having learned of this matter, sank into profound lamentation.
When I said that for but a day of your favor I would ruin my hundred-year life—it must have presaged such matters as this.
People remarked that His Majesty’s resolve surpassed even Emperor Taizong of Tang’s era, when Wei Zheng dissuaded Zheng Renji from sending his daughter to Yuanguan Hall by declaring, “The chaste maiden stands already pledged to Lu Shi.”
After Aoi no Mae had perished, His Majesty thought constantly upon her alone, and when word spread that he had fallen into deep affliction, it is said a great many nursing attendants were sent from Her Majesty the Empress’s residence to attend him.

Regarding "jōdō" [上童]: What ought to be read as uhewarawa has in recent times come to be called by its Chinese-derived pronunciation instead; or perhaps there was an error in transcribing the original text’s kanji 上童 into kana as dō.
The attendants served the young Empress and were also employed by ladies-in-waiting.

Kosaishō

Following the incident with Aoi no Mae, as His Majesty the Emperor was plunged into profound grief, Her Majesty the Empress dispatched numerous ladies-in-waiting to attend upon him. Among them was Lady Kosaishō—daughter of Sakura Machi Chunagon Shigenori—renowned as the imperial court’s foremost beauty and an unparalleled koto player among attendants.

This was the lady-in-waiting whom Reizei Dainagon Takafusa—then still holding the rank of Major Captain—had fallen in love with at first sight during his attendance at a seasonal court banquet.

Initially he sent letters imbued with poetic gratitude, yet they accumulated without eliciting any response. Though considerable time had passed—and women are said to possess tender hearts—did this lady truly harbor such sentiments? When she finally relented, the Major Captain rejoiced immeasurably, cherishing her beyond all measure. Yet before long she was recalled to the Imperial Palace. Bereft, he clung to the faint hope that if she remained in palace service, he might glimpse her from afar. Under this pretense, he began visiting daily on trivial pretexts—pacing before Lady Kosaishō’s chamber or lingering outside her bamboo blinds. But neither casual acknowledgment nor even servants emerged to greet him. Disheartened, he once composed a waka poem and cast it through the blinds—it read:

Tormented by love, my heart drifts empty as Michinoku skies—
The salt-kiln shores of vows lie beyond reach.

Though Lady Kosaishō saw the letter and wished she might somehow reply, she steadied her heart and resolved: "Since I have been summoned and now serve you in this manner, no matter what the Major Captain says, I must neither exchange words nor send responses." Having an attendant carry the letter beyond the blinds, she had it returned. The Major Captain thought her a pitiless, resentful woman - so disheartened he could scarcely bring himself to walk away - yet fearing prying eyes all the same, he tucked away the returned letter and began departing. But however he considered it, this treatment seemed too cruel, and so he turned back once more.

Shall I not even grasp the jeweled letter in my hand now? Though I resolve to cast it from my heart...

If even meeting in this world was now impossible, I could only think how better to die as I was than linger pointlessly - pining for this heartless man who would not spare me a glance while drowning in anguish.

There exists love where two dwell face-to-face yet share no meeting of hearts - pitiable indeed. And there exists love where separated souls lament "Why must we feel so deeply?" yet find bittersweet joy in their mutual longing.

She came to realize that love which fails to connect hearts despite physical proximity breeds resentment far more hopeless than love kindled through yearning without ever meeting.

This Major Captain of the Reizei House was also son-in-law to the Cloistered Chancellor.

When Lady Kosaishō heard through others' accounts that the Cloistered Chancellor had declared, “So long as this Kosaishō remains in society, society shall know no peace—therefore we must apprehend her and deal with the matter,” she agonized: “Though I could dispose of myself however I choose, Your Majesty’s situation worries me above all else—I must find some way...” until finally resolving: “There remains no choice but to flee.” One evening, mingling with attendant children coming and going, she slipped stealthily from the Imperial Palace and disappeared without trace.

When the Cloistered Chancellor heard that His Majesty had become so despondent over vanished Kosaishō that he partook neither of imperial repasts nor found restful sleep, he remarked: “Your Majesty must be brooding over Kosaishō.”

Without bringing even a single lady-in-waiting who might offer consolation with their “If that be the case,” and with courtiers who might visit the palace becoming objects of envy and resentment, none now dared attend court daunted by the Cloistered Chancellor’s authority. Thus the imperial residence’s condition transformed entirely from what it had been, its stillness and desolation pitifully profound.

His Majesty, weighed down by thoughts of Kosaishō, spent his days confined to the palace chambers meant for nighttime, while at dusk he would emerge to the South Hall, purifying his heart in the moonlight.

The time being around the tenth day of the Eighth Month, though the sky held not a single cloud, His Majesty’s tears cast haze over the moonlight, leaving it dimly veiled.

When His Majesty called out, “Is anyone present? Are there attendants here?” yet received no reply, after some time passed, Nakakuni—Major Controller of the Left—who happened to be keeping night watch near the imperial presence that evening, responded “Nakakuni” and approached the throne. “Draw near, Nakakuni. There is a matter I wish to discuss,” His Majesty commanded. As Nakakuni drew close, the Emperor inquired, “Though this comes abruptly—might you know Kosaishō’s whereabouts?” When Nakakuni replied, “How could this humble one possibly possess such knowledge?” His Majesty stated, “I know not whether it be truth or error, but there are reports of her dwelling in a house with split doors in Saga Province. Could you not seek her out even without knowing the householder’s name?” To this Nakakuni responded, “Without even the master’s name, how might one reasonably conduct such a search?”

His Majesty murmured “Truly...” as tears streamed down his imperial visage.

As Nakakuni deeply contemplated the overwhelming honor of receiving this command, he reasoned: “When that lady played the koto at the Imperial Palace, I was always summoned to accompany her on flute. No matter where she might reside now, under the flawless beauty of this moon, she could not possibly refrain from recalling Your Majesty and playing her instrument.”

“Since there aren’t many houses in Saga, if I humbly go door to door searching, wherever she may be, I should recognize the sound of her koto.” Having thought this, he proposed, “Then shall I go and seek her out?”

“Even should I search every corner, without receiving an imperial letter it may prove a fruitless endeavor,” Nakakuni proposed. Thereupon His Majesty composed an imperial letter, commanding: “Take a post-horse and depart.” Receiving the imperial steed, Nakakuni raised his whip to the bright moon and rode forth into the unknown.

In the autumn twilight scenery of Sagano—that fleeting verse about “this mountain village”—how keenly someone must have felt the sorrow.

Whenever he found a place with split doors, wondering if she might be there, he would rein in his horse again and again, straining his ears to listen—but no sound of a koto playing could be heard.

Perhaps lured by the moon’s beauty to visit temples, he searched from Shakadō Hall through every place of worship, yet found no one resembling Lady Kosaishō. Though he had departed the Imperial Palace with confident assurances, returning empty-handed without encountering his quarry would surely sour His Majesty’s mood.

Though she wished to vanish from this place, since wherever she went in this land of Japan there was no refuge to hide her existence, she thought, “There’s nothing to be done—Hōrin Temple must be nearby,” and headed toward it. Near Kameyama, where a pine grove stood, she faintly heard the sound of a koto.

Was it mountain gusts through the peaks? Or perhaps pine winds? Could it even be the koto of the one he sought? Though uncertain, he scarcely needed to quicken his steed or swing his whip before reaching a gate with split doors—where the sight of someone playing koto with perfect composure left no doubt: this was the distinct plucking of Lady Kosaishō.

When asked what piece she was playing, the man thought she was performing “Sōfuren” (Longing for the Beloved), which is read as “kou”.

Though there were many musical pieces, the pathos of her playing this particular one now—Nakakuni thought, “How pitiful—it seems this lady still has not forgotten Your Majesty,” and overjoyed, he drew the flute from his waist, leapt from his horse, rushed to the gate, and knocked repeatedly—whereupon the koto playing abruptly ceased.

“This humble envoy Nakakuni has come from the Imperial Palace.”
“Please open up! Please open up!” he pleaded, knocking again and again, but no sound of response came.
Yet after some time came signs of movement within. As Nakakuni waited in hopeful anticipation, chains rattled and the gate opened to reveal a pitifully beautiful young maid who peered out with only her face visible. “This is no place fit to receive imperial envoys from the palace,” she declared. “You must surely be mistaken.”
When her written reply—tied as an imperial letter with a lady-in-waiting’s robe layered beneath—was pushed beyond the blinds, Nakakuni slung the robe over his shoulder and declared: “Were this an envoy from any other person, mere written correspondence might suffice. But when you played the koto at His Majesty’s court, was it not always my duty to attend you with flute? When did you forget this service?”
When Nakakuni insisted, “I would find it most regrettable not to receive Your Ladyship’s personal reply,” Lady Kosaishō—apparently concluding he spoke truth—prepared a response herself.
“As you well know,” she said through tears, “when I heard the Cloistered Chancellor utter such terrifying threats, I was so appalled that one evening I stole away from the palace unnoticed. In this wretched dwelling, I’d had no occasion to play the koto—yet having resolved to depart for Ohara tomorrow, my host’s ladies lingered over farewells tonight. As night deepened, they concocted excuses: ‘Surely no eavesdroppers remain now.’ Overcome with nostalgia for times past, I played my familiar koto—only to be detected without delay.” At this, Nakakuni too found his sleeves drenched with tears.
Nakakuni pressed: “This matter of departing for Ohara tomorrow—you surely intend to alter your appearance?”
“You must not indulge in such plans.”
“You must not send out your ladies-in-waiting,” he declared, leaving behind a man called Kichijō and returning alone to the palace—by then dawn’s first light had broken.
While securing the post-horse, Nakakuni tossed the lady’s robe over the carriage partition, thinking: *Now that His Majesty likely sleeps deeply, through whom should I request audience?* Approaching the South Hall where the waning moon already cast its light across the western annex, he found His Majesty still seated in evening robes within the dusk chamber—having never retired—awaiting his return.
At the very moment His Majesty grandly recited verse—“Southward leaning yet northward turned/Cold clouds cling to autumn’s haze/From east emerges what westward flows/Propped on dawn’s lingering moon”—Nakakuni arrived in haste with Lady Kosaishō’s reply. His Majesty rejoiced immeasurably and commanded: “With none else to consult, you yourself shall fetch her.” Though fearing Taira clan repercussions, Nakakuni obeyed this imperial decree. He readied an ox-carriage for Saga, yet when conveying His Majesty’s will to Lady Kosaishō, she stubbornly refused return. Through manifold persuasions he finally brought her back in secret—and as His Majesty summoned her nightly through deepening autumn nights, a princess came to be born.
This princess would later be known as Bōmon no Nyoin.

*Sakuramachi Chūnagon was the son of Nyūdō Shinzei.
This lord cherished cherry blossoms profoundly and prayed to divine powers so earnestly that they remained unscattered through extended seasons - thus did this place become known as Sakura-machi.

Kosaishō’s Suicide by Drowning

The warriors who perished in battle at Ichi-no-Tani of Settsu Province this time numbered ten: Echizen Third Rank Michimori; Satsuma Governor Tadanori; Tajima Governor Tsunemasa; Wakasa Governor Tsunetoshi; Awaji Governor Kiyofusa; Owari Governor Tsunesada; Bitchū Governor Morimori; Musashi Governor Tomoaki; Chamberlain Tayū Narimori; and Tayū Atsumori.

When these ten heads were sent to the capital, that of Moritoshi—former Governor of Etchū—was dispatched to Kyoto alongside them.

Among them, only Lord Shigehira—Middle Captain holding substantive Third Rank—had been captured alive.

Hearing this news, the Second Consort lamented through tears: “Though death upon battlefields be natural for bow-wielding warriors, how pitiful that this former Third Rank Middle Captain alone should live captive—what manifold torments must now afflict his thoughts!”

The wife of Major Counselor Sada sought to alter her appearance and take monastic vows, but both the Minister and Second Consort restrained her with protests of “How could we permit you to abandon the world as a nun?” Thus prevented from changing her form, she could only sink into despondency, weeping without cease.

As for the wives of those fallen at Ichi-no-Tani, nearly all had succeeded in altering their appearances.

Most pitiful among them was Takiguchi Tokisada—a retainer of Echizen Third Rank Michimori—who returned from battle to kneel before his lord’s wife and report: “This morning at Minato River’s shallows, His Lordship found himself surrounded by seven enemy horsemen and ultimately fell.”

“The final blow that severed his noble head came from Ōmi Province resident Kimura no Genzō Naritsuna.”

“Though ready to follow him in death,” he continued, “my late lord long commanded: ‘Should fate claim me, never think to accompany me beyond this life.’”

“‘Rather steel your heart and safeguard Her Ladyship’s path’—thus did he charge me. Preserving this worthless life, I have come.” The wife made no reply, clutching her robe as she wept.

Though others spoke of Lord Michimori’s death, Her Ladyship waited three days—nay four—with breath held fast: “Might this news prove false? Perhaps he still lives and will return,” she thought—as one awaits a traveler on brief journey—a pitiable sight indeed.

Yet now that days had passed in vain and even hope’s last thread—“Perhaps… perhaps…”—had snapped, she felt anchorless desolation take root.

On the thirteenth day of Second Month’s dawn approach—as they crossed seas from Ichi-no-Tani toward Yashima—Her Ladyship addressed her wet nurse attendant: “How fleeting all proves upon true reflection! On that eve when Lord Michimori prepared for battle’s dawn departure, he summoned me saying—”

“‘Though warriors’ battlefield deaths be commonplace, this time I feel desolation beyond worldly measure—for death seems certain.’”

“Considering Michimori’s ephemeral tenderness—two years having passed since we left capital comforts for unfamiliar journeying skies—that he never once showed me harsh countenance makes me rejoice, thinking ‘This Michimori shall never fade from memory through all ages.’ This gravid state that warps my form brings comfort too—for childless until thirty, this must serve as our memento against life’s transience.”

“And now adrift upon endless waves in this floating residence—the awkwardness and anguish of impending motherhood—what am I to do? Those very words he spoke have become empty promises.”

“Had I known that dawn six days past—when you still walked this earth—marked your final morning here, how bitterly would I resent even those vows exchanged that night meant to bind future lives! Comparing my plight to Genji’s moonlit Oborozukiyo or Kōkiden’s slender pillar deepens sorrow tenfold.”

If I drowse, he visits dreams; if wake, his visage stands before me—those sung verses prove true indeed.

Yet even were I to bear this child as keepsake of the departed, though grief might deepen, solace would remain beyond reach.

To linger living invites unforeseen suffering.

To be seen even amidst the reeds' shadows would prove too grievous to bear. "In such circumstances, I wish to throw myself into fire or water. Please send the letter I wrote to the capital. Let me also speak of matters concerning the afterlife. Bestow upon me robes from any holy one to illuminate my fleeting existence."

"What pains me most is that this sorrowful memento shall never fade through all ages," she declared, pleading at length about future prospects and past regrets, when her wet nurse lady-in-waiting cried out: "Ah, what has come over you?"

The wet nurse thought sorrowfully, "To think Your Ladyship, who never gives clear replies even when people come bearing messages, should tonight plead so earnestly about various matters—truly you must mean to throw yourself into fire or water," then continued aloud: "The grief felt by wives of those who fell at Ichi-no-Tani is shared by all."

"Yet all the ladies were made to alter their appearances," she said. "The paths of the Six Realms and Four Births are separate—for Your Ladyship to traverse whichever realm and walk the same path as His Lordship would prove most difficult."

"Moreover," she added, "I have heard that the death of a pregnant woman is especially sinful."

"After you have safely delivered and raised the young prince as a memento of the departed," she urged, "should your heart still remain unconsoled even then, then change this appearance and devote yourself to prayers for his salvation."

"Even if I must sink to the thousand-fathom sea’s depths—please take me with you—" she lamented with manifold sorrows.

Her Ladyship, seemingly regretting having spoken thus, responded: "In truth I meant no such thing—it simply slipped out after too much pent-up feeling. There’s no cause for such shock or tears. Come now—the night grows late, let us retire."

At this, the wet nurse lady-in-waiting rejoiced and lay beside Her Ladyship. When she thought her mistress had briefly dozed off, Her Ladyship rose anew and stepped out to the gunwale.

Upon the boundless expanse of water where no west could be discerned, she quietly chanted Buddhist prayers toward the mountain ridge where the moon now dipped, believing that direction must hold the setting point. Out on the offing, white sands shimmered like phantom companions as plovers cried incessantly.

The faint sounds of rudders skimming across the sea's surface and the distant cries of "heave-ho" added yet another layer of sorrow to the scene.

"Hail Amida Buddha, Savior of the Western Pure Land! Though dawn had yet to break when we were torn apart by cruel fate’s design," she implored, "I too now follow this path. Pray grant that in our next life, we may meet upon a single lotus—" With this final invocation of "Namu," she sank beneath the waves.

It was a pitiful thing.

On the thirteenth day of the Second Month, near dawn as they crossed from Ichi-no-Tani to Yashima, none knew of this incident—yet a boatman rowing a vessel moored alongside spotted it and cried: “Ah, how pitiful! What an outrageous deed!”
“The lady who was aboard that noble boat has now entered the sea—ah!” cried the boatman in a loud voice. Upon hearing this, the wet nurse lady-in-waiting searched the vicinity, but she was nowhere to be found.
“Ah! Ah! This is terrible!” came the shouts, rousing everyone to awaken. They stopped the boat and sent sailors into the sea to search, but she could not be found.
For even without this, spring nights naturally grow hazy—clouds from villages all around drifted lazily in to veil the moonlight at midnight, while the tides from Naruto in Awa, known for their swiftness at full ebb, moved swiftly all the more. Moreover, her white robes matched the waves’ hue perfectly, so though they searched and searched, they could not find her. Yet after some time had passed, when they finally lifted her up, there she lay clad in a two-layered robe of pale silk with white trousers.
Her hair and hakama were thoroughly drenched, sodden with seawater—but though they had gone to the trouble of retrieving her, it was all for naught.
The wet nurse lady-in-waiting clung to the already cold hand, crying out: “Ah, what an outrageous thing you have done!”
“Since Your Ladyship’s days in swaddling clothes have I raised you—not once parted from your side until this very day. Even when departing for the capital, I cast aside aged parents to accompany you here. Why must you show me such misery now?”
“Even if this be karmic fate, I beg you—show me once more your vibrant voice, let me behold your former visage again.”
“Ah, what can I truly say?” she cried out with manifold lamentations—yet all proved futile. Her faint breath dwindled until at last she perished.
Since remaining like this served no purpose, they bundled up the single remaining nagagi robe of the late Third Rank Lord and returned it to the sea.
The wet nurse, crying “I too!”, attempted to leap in together but was restrained by the others; she lay prostrate lamenting in the ship’s hold. Then she cut off her own hair and had her head shaved by Chūkai, the Risshi and Middle Counselor (younger brother of the Third Rank), upholding the precepts while weeping.
For women who have parted from men to alter their appearance is a common, everyday occurrence, yet cases where they resort to throwing themselves [to their deaths] remain rare.
They say “A loyal retainer does not serve two lords; a chaste woman does not meet two husbands”—it must have been such cases they spoke of.

This northern lady was the daughter of the late Fujiwara no Kyōken, Minister of Justice, who had served at Jōsaimon-in and was called Lady Kosaishō.
At that time when Echizen no Sanmi Michimori still served as Assistant Secretary to the Empress, he saw this lady-in-waiting but once and composed poetry, wrote letters, and courted her through long years—yet she showed no sign of yielding. When three years had passed, the Third Rank resolved this would be his final attempt; he wrote a letter and entrusted it to a lady-in-waiting who had long conveyed messages between them, beseeching her: “Pray deliver this to her.” As she brought it to the palace, it happened that Lady Kosaishō was returning from her family home for court attendance. Feigning to hurry past her carriage, he threw the letter inside before departing.
Her Ladyship Kosaishō inquired, “What manner of person was it that threw this letter into the carriage just now?” Yet all those in her retinue claimed ignorance. Deeming it improper to leave the letter within the vehicle, she tucked it into the waistband of her hakama and proceeded to the Imperial Residence—only to drop the missive before none other than the Empress Dowager herself.
The Empress Dowager noticed this and summoned all the ladies-in-waiting of the Imperial Residence. “I have found something most curious—I wonder who owns this letter,” Her Majesty said. They all swore by gods and buddhas that “None of us know,” yet amidst them only Her Ladyship Kosaishō flushed crimson, turned her face away, and uttered not a word.
The Empress Dowager pressed further: “Your Ladyship, what say you?” With no recourse left, she could only utter: “That... Michimori’s...”
The Empress Dowager, having previously heard rumors of such matters, opened the letter and examined it—the brushwork was robust yet executed with delicate strokes suggestive of some underlying cause,

My love is Hosotani River's log bridge—trodden back and forth till sleeves run drenched.

“Ah, this poem appears to resent never having met,” observed the Empress Dowager. “How steadfast you remain! Why do you not acquiesce? Even hearts too resolute become instruments of self-ruin—consider Ono no Komachi, celebrated in middling times for peerless beauty and refinement. Finding others’ attentions wearisome, she maintained such iron resolve that eventually they deemed her ‘that woman of unyielding will’ and ceased their suits. Thus did she dwell by Sekidera Temple, receiving alms from wayfarers, inhabiting a crumbling hovel while sustaining her dew-like existence through plucking young herbs from field margins and watercress roots from riverbanks—as chronicled in precedent.”
“You must yield now.”
It was said Her Majesty then declared: “I shall compose the response myself.”

Merely trust Hosotani River's log bridge—step back and forth, and will you not fall?

Lord Michimori had been graciously granted Lady Kosaishō by the Empress Dowager and cherished her beyond measure, but when word spread that Middle Counselor Sukemori—the second son of Lord Komatsu who had served as Junior Captain at that time—had attended seasonal court banquets, taken notice of her, and made various overtures to no avail before rising to the Third Rank himself, Sukemori's wife (known as the Lady of Ukyō no Daibu’s Chamber who served at the Empress’s side), perhaps moved by jealous thoughts, sent a waka poem.

How deeply must you lament—this heart once dyed like mountain maple leaves now taken by others.

In Sukemori’s reply:

In the crimson grove where another once lingered—did my heart shift and feelings first take root?

This too was recounted as a most elegant and tender example of such matters.
The saying that beauty of form is a flower of fortune held true—how pitiful that he, having been granted Lady Kosaishō by the Empress Dowager, should take her even upon this journey to the western seas, only to perish in the end and follow the same path.

Imperial Palace ladies-in-waiting

Also, around the same time, there was a retainer of the Third Rank Lord named Mokunokōma no Jō Masatoki.

One day, having come to worship at Hachijō Horikawa Temple, he said to the guardian warrior: “I am Mokunokōma no Jō Masatoki—a retainer who served for several years at the residence of His Lordship the Third Rank Lord and Middle Counselor.”

“Though I deemed it proper to accompany His Lordship when departing the capital, being one who serves at Hachijō no In and knowing naught of bow and arrow, I received leave to remain here.”

“Yet whether true or not, I had heard His Lordship the Third Rank Lord and Middle Counselor would return to the capital within days.”

When Masatoki pleaded, “By your graciousness, might you grant me leave to meet His Lordship once more?” the guardian warrior replied, “Well, so long as you leave that waist-sword here—’tis simple enough.” Thus did Masatoki entrust his blade to Tobei Jirō and go meet the Third Rank Lord.

“Ho! Is that Masatoki yonder? Come hither!” called His Lordship. Masatoki drew near and they spent the night conversing of recent matters and future paths.

At dawn’s breaking, Masatoki sought leave to depart.

His Lordship the Third Rank Lord and Middle Counselor inquired, “Ah yes—where now resides the sender of that letter I once entrusted to you?” To which Masatoki answered, “They remain at the Cloistered Emperor’s residence.” When His Lordship said, “I would at least send a letter—even a reply might bring solace,” Masatoki responded, “’Twere my humble duty.”

The Third Rank Lord rejoiced exceedingly and soon penned a letter to deliver.

As Masatoki exited bearing it, the guardian warrior asked, “Whither goes that missive?” The Third Rank Lord showed it to Tobei Jirō, saying, “No matter—let him see.”

Sanetada unsealed it and exclaimed, “Ah! This must be for Her Ladyship—no concern,” then returned it. Masatoki withdrew to his lodgings and waited out the day. When night fell and silence settled as planned, he lingered near the roofed corridor of that lady-in-waiting’s chamber and listened. Hearing her weep while speaking of His Lordship—delighted she’d not forgotten him—he rapped insistently on the sliding door. From within came a voice: “Who goes there?”

“’Tis Masatoki, His Lordship’s messenger,” he declared, whereupon the door opened.

When she unfolded the presented missive upon its hanshi paper, a poem lay written there.

Though I am one whose sullied name flows down the River of Tears—might I but meet you once again?

She immediately wrote a reply and handed it to Masatoki.
When Masatoki went to Hachijō Temple and presented it to the Third Rank Lord, upon opening it, he found yet another poem written there.

"Though my sullied name flows because of you,
Let it vanish here with all debris."

The Third Rank Lord perused this letter and was greatly consoled in heart.
Afterward, he addressed the guardian warriors: “I would like to receive your gracious favor once more—what say you?” When they replied, “What do you mean?” he continued: “It is nothing extraordinary, but I wish to meet with the sender of yesterday’s letter and discuss matters beyond death...” A guardian warrior responded, “It is of no concern whatsoever,” whereupon His Lordship joyfully informed Masatoki of this development. Masatoki diligently prepared an ox-drawn carriage and went to report these circumstances at the Cloistered Emperor’s residence. The lady-in-waiting, finding this wholly unexpected yet greatly pleasing, immediately resolved to depart—but the surrounding ladies-in-waiting exclaimed: “Ah, such recklessness! You would do well to abandon such notions!”

“With so many warriors about,” they objected, “how utterly unseemly!” Yet this lady-in-waiting insisted: “If I do not meet him today, who knows when I might again?” She hurriedly boarded the carriage and went to Hachijō Horikawa Temple to request an audience. His Lordship advised: “With numerous warriors surrounding me, it would be most improper for you to alight from the carriage.” He had it parked by the gate and waited until deep into the night when all had retired. Then he himself went to where the carriage stood and conversed through till dawn about past matters and future prospects.

As dawn gradually approached—fearing they might be seen—they turned the carriage blinds around and began returning along the original path.
Where could they be hastening to find lodging? And what words had been exchanged? The unbearable sorrow must have spilled beyond the carriage.
Immediately afterward, he had Masatoki deliver a poem.

Both our meetings and dew-like existence—is tonight alone to be our limit?

The lady-in-waiting herself ground ink, took up a brush, and wrote her reply—then plucked from her hair the very jade hairpin that fastened it, sending this with her response.
In that reply,

When I hear our meetings have their limit—this dew-like self should vanish before you.

The Third Rank Lord gazed upon that hairpin and saw manifested in it the true hue of devotion his lady had shown daily—the anguish within him grew so fierce he felt he might cry aloud.
Soon after, this twenty-three-year-old lady slipped from the Cloistered Emperor's residence, retreating beneath flowering boughs with ink-stained sleeves worn threadbare, coming to dwell near Higashiyama's Sōrinji Temple.
This lady-in-waiting was daughter to Ōhara's Minbu Nyūdō Chikanori and known as she who was called Lord Saemon no Kami.

Yokobue

Around that time there were various tales tinged with pathos, but among them all stood Lord Koremori, the Third Rank Middle Counselor of Komatsu—though his body remained at Yashima, his heart perpetually yearned toward the capital.

Though he desperately wished to show his face even once to the young children left behind in his homeland, finding no means to do so, he slipped away from Yashima Mansion at dawn on the fifteenth day of the third month in the third year of Juei. Taking only Yosobei Shigekage who understood boats, the page Ishido-maru, and Toneri Takezato—three companions in all—he embarked by vessel from Yukiura in Awa Province.

They crossed through Naruto’s inner straits to Wakanoura and Fukiage coves, rowing past Tamatsushima Myojin’s shores near Hikuni-mae no Gozen—where they say Princess Sotoorihime manifested as a deity—until arriving at Kii Port.

From there he longed to travel through coves and islands then overland to reach the capital, but the mere thought of his uncle Lord Shigehira—the Third Rank Lord and Middle Counselor—being captured alone and paraded through Kyoto’s countryside already brought unbearable shame; how much worse should Koremori himself be seized and tarnish his father’s honor! Though his heart pulled him repeatedly toward the capital, after endless deliberation he instead ascended Mount Kōya to seek a certain monk acquaintance—Saionji Takiguchi Tokiyori, son of Sanjō’s Saionji Saeimon-no-Taifu Shigeyori, who had served Lord Komatsu until age thirteen before coming to the capital where there was a maidservant of Kenreimon-in named Yokobue.

When it became known throughout society that Takiguchi visited this woman incessantly out of deep affection, his father Shigeyori summoned him one day and admonished: “Having no children but you, I had hoped to secure you service through respectable connections! Yet here you consort with this worthless Yokobue—truly you’re an unfilial wretch!” Takiguchi pondered: “The Queen Mother of the West exists only in ancient tales; even famed figures like Dongfang Shuo remain mere names unheard by living ears.

“The boundary between youth and age vanishes like sparks from flint.

“Were one to maintain fixed longevity, still they’d not reach seventy or eighty years—and within that span, the human body’s prime lasts but twenty-odd years.

“Should I spend those fleeting years chasing my heart’s desire to gaze upon my beloved, I’d defy parental will and court ruin.

“Yet obeying them would shatter her heart beyond repair.

“In this transient world, what gain lies in glimpsing even a moment’s sorrow?

“To renounce this floating world for Buddha’s true path—no resolution could surpass this.” Thus at nineteen, Takiguchi cut his topknot and withdrew deep into Saga’s Ōjōin Temple, devoting himself solely to prayer.

When Yokobue learned of this she cried: “However you’ve altered your appearance—surely you wouldn’t abandon me completely!

“That you changed your form breaks my heart.

“Why didn’t you tell me you meant to do this?”

“Even if he speaks with such resolve,” she murmured through tears, “why must I still yearn to seek him out and voice my reproach?” One twilight she stole from the Imperial Palace and wandered toward Saga.

The time being past the tenth day of the second month, winds from Umetsu Province carried nostalgic fragrances even to this distant place, while moonlight upon the Ōi River lay shrouded in mist, hazily obscured. Who could have imagined for whom this unbearable sorrow took form? Though she had heard of Ōjōin Temple, not knowing precisely which cloister housed him made lingering at gates to inquire a mournful act. When Yokobue recognized Takiguchi’s voice chanting sutras from monastic quarters where he dwelled, she had her attendant enter and announce: “Yokobue has come wishing to behold Your Reverence’s altered appearance.” At this, Takiguchi’s heart raced with shame. Peering through a shōji gap, he saw her unkempt hair spilling over a face where tears streamed ceaselessly like rain—gaunt features suggesting sleepless vigil. Though yearning to approach directly, such forwardness felt improper; the pitiful sight would have weakened even the staunchest ascetic’s resolve. Takiguchi soon steadied himself and sent an intermediary out: “I am not who you seek.” “There must be some mistake,” came the final reply as he turned her away unacknowledged.

Afterward, Takiguchi Nyūdō addressed his master monk: “This secluded place far removed from worldly affairs presents no hindrance whatsoever for chanting Buddhist prayers. Yet since the woman from whom I parted—without dawn or dusk’s passing—has discovered my dwelling, even though I sent her away just this once tonight, should she come seeking me again, my heart will surely waver.”
“That would pose difficulties—I must request my leave,” he declared, then left that place in tears, ascended Mount Kōya, and took up residence at a place called Nashinobō of Hōchōin Temple.
Yokobue, finding herself unable to remain in such circumstances, had changed her course and taken residence at Hokkeji Temple in Nara—or so he heard. Upon learning this, he rejoiced greatly and sent a poem from Mount Kōya.

All past resentments—like a catalpa bow unstrung—
Now entering Buddha’s true path brings such joy!

Yokobue's Reply

Even should you bend the catalpa bow of resentment,

Yokobue, perhaps consumed by her pent-up emotions, soon wasted away.
When the monk heard this news, he devoted himself even more earnestly to his practice. His father forgave this misfortune; those close to him honored him as the Holy Monk of Mount Takayama; while those who knew him from former times still called him Takiguchi Nyūdō.
Afterward, when the Third Rank Middle Counselor sought out Takiguchi and met him, who could have imagined this was the same man who once dwelled in the capital—that paragon of elegance who had worn plain hemp robes with a tall eboshi hat, kept his garments immaculate, and combed his hair to perfection?
Though this marked his first encounter with Takiguchi since taking monastic vows, the man—not yet thirty—appeared emaciated like an aged monk. His gaunt frame wore deep indigo-dyed robes and a kesa of matching hue, every aspect steeped in incense smoke—the very image of an ascetic so devout it inspired envy.
One perceived that even the Bamboo Grove Temple where Jin's Seven Sages dwelled or Mount Shang's retreat housing Han's Four Haos could not have surpassed this state of devotion.

Giō

In former times, when both the Minamoto and Taira clans served the imperial court, they would admonish one another against those who defied imperial authority without heeding commands, thus maintaining order through successive eras. However, after Tameyoshi was executed in the Hōgen Rebellion and Yoshitomo met his end in the Heiji Rebellion, what remained of the Minamoto clan existed in name alone—some scattered in exile.
With some having been executed and none remaining to oppose the Taira clan, the House of Taira alone prospered extravagantly. Though there may have been those who harbored thoughts against them, none dared raise their heads under that overwhelming power—yet it appeared inevitable that some reckoning would come in time.
Once Chancellor Nyūdō had single-handedly seized control of all under heaven, he paid no heed whatsoever to people’s mockery or the world’s censure, doing only as he pleased.
At that time, there were shirabyōshi dancer sisters named Giō and Ginyo who were said to be unparalleled in the capital.
This was Toji, mother of the shirabyōshi dancers.
Chancellor Nyūdō cherished Giō above all others and had her retained at his Nishihachijō residence.
For this reason, people also treated her younger sister Ginyo with boundless esteem.
Moreover, Chancellor Nyūdō built a splendid house for Toji, her mother, and each month on the first day sent a hundred koku of rice and a hundred kan of gold by carriage, so the household flourished with boundless joy.
Thus, among the shirabyōshi dancers throughout the capital, there were those who envied Giō’s cherished position, and also many who resented her.
Those who envied her would exclaim, “Oh, how fortunate and auspicious Lady Giō must be!”
“If we are to be fellow entertainers, how I wish I could be like her.”
“Surely it’s because she has the character ‘righteousness’ in her name that she’s so fortunate. I’ll try adding it to mine as well,” said one, who then took the name Giichi.
Others took names like Gini, Giyoku, Gifuku, Giju, and Gihō.
Those who resented her would say, “What use is there in relying on names or characters?”
“Well, now—if that’s how it works, then they should all prosper by adding ‘Gi’ to their names—but fortune is just innate luck, no matter what you say!” declared many who refused to adopt it.

The origin of shirabyōshi in our court is said to have begun during Emperor Toba’s reign, when two individuals—Shima no Chitose and Waka no Mae—first started performing their dances.
Initially, they danced wearing suikan robes with tall eboshi hats and white sashes, which was named “male dance.” Then from the mid-period onward, they removed the swords and hats, dancing solely in white suikan, thus coming to be called “shirabyōshi.”
And so it was that in the spring of the third year since Giō had been established there, another gentle and beautiful entertainer named Hotoke appeared once more.
This woman was said to be from Kaga Province.
At this time, though there had been many shirabyōshi throughout the capital since ancient times, people of all ranks declared they had never seen such a one as this and unanimously entertained her.
One time Hotoke Gozen declared: “Though I may call myself an unrivaled shirabyōshi in all the land, I cannot bear this discontent at not being summoned to Lord Chancellor Nyūdō of the Taira clan, who now prospers so splendidly.”
“For entertainers’ unsolicited visits are commonplace and unobjectionable,” declared Hotoke one day as she rode by carriage to the Nishihachijō residence.
A retainer came to Chancellor Nyūdō and said, “A beautiful entertainer called Hotoke has arrived.”
“What brings her?” he snapped. “Entertainers ought to come when summoned, not arrive unbidden! Moreover, while Lady Giō remains here, be it god or buddha at our gates—send them away at once!”
As the retainer withdrew with these harsh orders, Giō remarked: “Uninvited visits are customary among entertainers—particularly one so young as I hear she is. Having mustered courage to come only to meet such brusque dismissal—how mortifying this must be.”
“Moreover, having walked this path myself long ago, I can hardly treat it as another’s affair.”
“Even should you neither watch her dance nor hear her song, were you to summon her for an audience before sending her back, she would surely feel grateful.”
“Have her summoned,” she urged. Thus they recalled Hotoke with “Very well—approach.”
“Now then, Hotoke,” declared Chancellor Nyūdō, “today was not meant for an audience—but since Giō keeps insisting who knows why, I called you back. Now that you stand summoned again, it would be regrettable not to hear your voice. Never mind formalities—sing one imayō song.”
Hotoke sang:
“When first I glimpsed my lord—like pines enduring a thousand ages,
Before your hallowed presence—turtles gather by your pond,
Cranes flocking joyously—”
After repeating this verse several times with perfect delivery, all present were deeply moved.
Chancellor Nyūdō remarked with apparent amusement, “Ah! You there—your imayō proves skilled indeed.”
“If your song pleases so, your dance must entertain likewise! Let us have one—any will do.” He summoned drummers and had her perform.
This lady—sixteen years of age like an unopened flower bud—possessed beauty without equal in form and feature: hair arranged exquisitely, dancing posture graceful beyond measure, voice clear as a bell, musical phrasing masterful indeed. How could such artistry meet defeat?
Her heart seemed ready to take wing—yet remained restrained.
None among the watchers failed to marvel.
It appeared Chancellor Nyūdō had become enamored of her dancing form—his heart now turned toward Hotoke.
By nature an impatient man, he found her dance’s conclusion too slow to bear—having her sing but one opening waka verse before sweeping Hotoke into inner chambers ere the final song could end.
Hotoke Gozen protested: “As an uninvited visitor who received Your Lordship’s curt dismissal and nearly departed empty-handed—it was only through Lady Giō’s intercession that I gained belated audience. Should my performance please you, I shall return when summoned again—but today I humbly beg leave to withdraw.”
To this the Chancellor retorted: “Nonsense! Why trouble yourself? You need only comply with Jōkai’s wishes! Though if Lady Giō’s presence disquiets you—”
“Ah no!” she interjected urgently. “Precisely that I cannot bear!”

“Even sharing this space brings such shame that my heart aches—how much worse to cast out Lady Giō?” she protested. Yet without another word, messengers came thrice demanding “Giō, return at once!” With no moment to rest, Giō swept her chamber, gathered debris, discarded unsightly things, and found herself compelled to depart.

Though I had long foreseen this outcome, never did I think it would come today. Now leaving these shoji screens where I’d dwelled three years, the sorrow of parting pressed heavy—knowing these useless tears yet unable to stem their flow.

Giō left, but lingering reluctance drove her back. To leave some trace, she wrote upon the screens she’d long called home.

Whether sprouting or withering, they are the same field grasses - Which among them shall be first to meet autumn’s end?

Giō regained her composure and rode out in the carriage, yet though her heart refused to move forward, her tears alone surged ahead.

Now that I know not where to go—why must these tears lead the way?

While reciting this, Giō returned to her lodging and could do nothing but collapse weeping behind the shoji screens.
Her mother found this strange and asked, “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” but she could not respond.
She asked the women accompanying her and only then learned that such a thing had occurred.
Given these circumstances, the nobles and commoners of the capital exclaimed, “Oh! So Giō has been dismissed from Lord Nishihachijō’s residence.”
Some sent letters urging “Come, let us meet and amuse ourselves!” while others dispatched messengers, yet Giō would declare, “How could I show my face now to meet people and make merry?”—she would not even pick up the letters to look at them, much less receive any envoys. As this continued, that year too drew to a close and spring arrived, whereupon Chancellor Nyūdō sent a messenger to Giō’s residence: “Giō—has anything further occurred since then?
When he sent word saying, “Hotoke appears dreadfully bored—come dance or sing imayō to comfort her,” Giō found this too outrageous to even respond.
“Now, Giō—why won’t you respond?”
“If you won’t come, then say so at once and send word.”
Chancellor Nyūdō declared, “Depending on your response, there may be consequences,” and sent word.
Toji pleaded, “Why on earth won’t you send a reply when His Lordship has entreated you so insistently?”
“If I intended to go, I would say I shall go now—but when I am not going, what reply should I make?”
“When His Lordship declares that refusal to come despite being summoned must mean I have some scheme—it can only mean either exile from the capital or execution. But even if driven from the city’s bounds, surely there remains some place where I might alight.”
“And even if they take my life—what could I possibly have left to regret?”
“Once I’m seen as something unpleasant, do you think there’s any chance I’d ever meet him again?” Still refusing to respond, her mother pressed on: “The bonds between men and women—the ties of fate—are not matters that began just now.”
“They say that even those who swear vows to last a thousand years, even unto the world’s end, may soon part ways—while others who think it but a fleeting moment may find their bond enduring long—and that in this world, nothing proves more unreliable than the bonds between men and women.”
“Moreover, for ladies of your station as entertainers—even being summoned for a day or two is such a blessing! Let alone having been called upon for three whole years. Surely there can be no greater memory to carry into future lifetimes than this.”
“When they say refusing summons implies scheming, exile from the capital may follow—but surely not execution. Even if driven from the city, you both being young could live anywhere without hardship. Yet when I think of my aged self enduring unfamiliar poverty, that alone brings sorrow.”
“I have no other requests—please just allow me to continue living within the capital.”
“For this would be my filial devotion in both this life and the next,” she said through tears, whereupon Giō began to leave weeping—“Then I shall go”—yet thinking it strange to depart alone, she took along her adopted sister as well.
Two similar shirabyōshi dancers—now four in total—rode together in a single carriage to the Nishihachijō residence.

Chancellor Nyūdō had taken his seat in a place considerably lower than where he had been summoned earlier.
Oh—what was this?
And for what reprimand have they done this to such an extent—even my seating has been lowered—ah, what an unbearable ordeal this is.
"And yet—what did I come here for today?" she wondered, and again the sadness welled up within her.
Trying to conceal her distress from others, she pressed her face into her sleeve—yet even from beneath the fabric, tears overflowed and streamed down.
Hotoke Gozen said, “This is not a place where I have never been summoned before."
“Have her summoned here.”
“If not, then I shall go out and present myself before you,” she said, but when Chancellor Nyūdō objected with “Nonsense!”, there was nothing she could do.

Afterward, Chancellor Nyūdō said, “Well now—Giō—has anything changed since then?” When he added, “Hotoke looks dreadfully bored—sing her an imayō,” Giō—having come this far—suppressed her falling tears and sang an imayō song, resigned that Chancellor Nyūdō’s orders must be obeyed without question.

When the moon had waned and the winds grown still, if one plumbs the heart's depths: even the Buddha was once an ordinary being, and we too—should we but reflect—are Buddhas. How foolish then to divide these bodies, all endowed with Buddha-nature.

Having sung this through twice and thrice with perfect mastery, all who heard were moved to pity.

“You sang well,” said Chancellor Nyūdō. “I would have watched the dance too, but an impediment arose. From now on, come unbidden to dance and sing imayō for Hotoke’s consolation—agreed?” he declared.

Even upon returning to her residence, Giō could do nothing but collapse weeping behind the shoji screens.

Determined not to disobey the parent’s command and enduring the anguish to go to that detestable place, only to suffer the humiliation of having her seating lowered—if she continued living in this world, she would surely have to witness such agonies again.
In the midst of this despair, she lamented, wishing she could throw herself into flames or sink to watery depths.
When the elder sister spoke of casting herself away, the adopted younger sister too declared she would cast herself away, so their mother Toji said: “It’s only natural you resent him, yet until recently I never once thought Chancellor Nyūdō so heartless—now when I look back, all those times I urged you to heed his teachings were truly misguided.”
“If the elder speaks of casting herself away, the younger declares she will do the same—what am I, left alone in my old age, to do?”
“Therefore, I too have no choice but to cast myself away alongside them.”
“To make a parent whose time to die has not yet come cast themselves away would undoubtedly constitute the Five Heinous Sins.”
“Amitābha Tathāgata adorns the Western Pure Land,” she declared, “disdaining neither single nor ten recitations, and guides even those who commit the Ten Evils and Five Heinous Sins.”

Giō declared, “To make a parent whose time to die has not yet come cast themselves away is undoubtedly one of the Five Heinous Sins,” and thus refrained from throwing herself away, instead changing her appearance at twenty-one.
Her adopted sister Gijo, having made a pact to do so together, also changed her appearance at nineteen.
Toji declared, "In this world where my two daughters in their prime have changed their appearance, what use is there for me to keep clinging to my aged white hair?" and changed her appearance at forty-five.
The three retreated deep into the mountains of Sagano, reciting Buddhist prayers as they entreated for assured rebirth through steadfast mindfulness at life’s end.
Living like this, spring passed and summer came.
When the autumn winds began to blow, it became the time when, while gazing at the star-filled sky, they would write down thoughts inspired by leaves of kaji trees crossing the heavens.
Even someone without cares or worries would find the autumn evening scene as it darkens melancholy. How much more pitiable must be the heart of one burdened with cares when imagined.
Whenever they saw the sun sinking into the western mountain rim, they would say, "That must surely be where the Western Pure Land lies. Someday we too shall be reborn there and live free from all cares."
Even so, what remains unforgettable from days of old and ceaselessly flows forth is naught but tears.
As dusk gradually deepened, the three people had gathered in one place to offer flowers and incense before the Buddha, reciting prayers while keeping a dim light burning, when there came a persistent knocking at the tightly shut bamboo-woven door.
The three people ceased their Buddhist prayers and declared, “This must surely be a demon come to disrupt the prayers of ignorant illiterates like us.”
“Yet if that were truly the case,” they reasoned, “such a demon would not struggle to push open a mere bamboo-woven door. Let us open it quickly—our sole reliance is Buddha! Even should our lives be taken, we must not neglect the Buddhist prayers we have devotedly recited of late.” With this resolve, the three people joined hands and flung open the tightly shut bamboo-woven door—only for Hotoke Gozen, wholly unexpected and no demon at all, to emerge before them.
Giō ran out and clung to Hotoke Gozen’s sleeve. “To meet you in such a place truly feels like a dream! Even by day this mountain village sees few visitors—how ever did you come here now?” she said. Then Hotoke Gozen replied: “Though speaking now of that time may seem like recounting something new…”
“Though I was originally an uninvited one driven far away under unwelcome commands, and though it was through your gracious words that I was summoned back, when I learned how swiftly you granted me dismissal, I could no longer see this as another’s affair—I thought my own fate too would surely come to this. All the more did I assent to what was written upon the shoji screen: ‘We shall meet no more until autumn’s appointed hour.’ Yet when you were once called to sing courtly songs and even your seating was lowered—the bitterness of that moment lies beyond what words can convey.”
“After that, I could not learn where you resided, but upon recently discovering you were here, envying your present state, though I pleaded again and again to be granted leave, they would not permit it in the slightest.”
“When I deeply ponder what to do, the glories of this world prove as fleeting as a dream within a dream—what does it matter if one enjoys prosperity or attains renown?”
“For a person who has died once, it is difficult to ever receive human form again—and even in Buddhism, if one fails to enter its path when first able, there may never be another chance. When I thought how death may come in the blink of an eye—swifter than mayflies or lightning—before a single exhaled breath can be drawn back in, my heart could find no rest. I agonized over what to do… until this noon, an unexpected opportunity arose, and I fled to become as you see me now.” As she removed her outer robes, her once-resplendent appearance now stood transformed into the guise of a nun. “By this humble form, I beg you to forgive my past sins. If you grant forgiveness, let me join you in this hermitage to chant prayers together for blessed rebirths in the next life. But if you refuse…” Her tears flowed unchecked. “…then I shall wander wherever my feet take me—to rocky crags or moss-covered stones—chanting prayers until I collapse like a fallen pine, that I might yet receive the Three Sacred Ones’ welcoming descent.”

“I will certainly no longer harbor resentment toward others.”
“Though I should have known my own suffering, somehow I could not forget you—my heart remained burdened, and I felt I could not fully serve the Buddha in this world or the next. Yet you, though barely seventeen, turn your back on this defiled world without a trace of lingering attachment and seek a pure realm—such a heart truly belongs to a devotee of the Way.”
“Though people called it unusual—and I too thought so myself—that I changed my appearance at twenty-one, now compared to your renunciation at seventeen, it hardly even counts! Do I still dwell on the past? Come—let us all settle together here.” Thus the four chanted Buddhist prayers in the same hermitage, entreating for blessed rebirths in the next life. Though some achieved this sooner and others later, in the end, it was said they all attained their aspiration for rebirth in the same manner.
Afterward, when Chancellor Nyūdō became unaware of Hotoke Gozen’s whereabouts, he had people search thoroughly with joined hands, but when they could not find her, Jōkai said: “Hotoke must have been taken away by tengu demons—she was simply too beautiful.”
After about half a year had passed, it was discovered that she was there, but given how things had turned out, they no longer made inquiries.
Thus it was said that in Emperor Go-Shirakawa’s Chōgōdō Hall memorial register, Giō, Gijo, Hotoke Gozen, Toji, and others were inscribed together as venerable spirits.

Flower of the Sea

In the perpetually blue inland sea of the southern country, there lived a mermaid.
That figure—possessing long black hair, ample breasts, and well-developed white arms—was not unworthy as the queen of this sea.
Clad tightly in slender, uniformly aligned scales that ceaselessly emitted a silvery light, she would play among crimson coral groves and moss-covered boulders tinged blue, her long black hair streaming through pale pink sakura shrimp and violet-glowing sea fish—a sight that adorned this inland sea like its very flower.
However, the aged sea serpent—king of the sea—for some reason did not permit this mermaid to play near the land.
The young mermaid, whose blood ran hot with passion for all things, had never once laid eyes on land. She would imagine this unseen world in countless ways and pine for it.
One day, when the warmth of spring sunlight permeated even to the sea's depths, this beautiful mermaid—yearning for the land and envying her own lovely form as she pleased—had swum to a certain rock and was resting her body there.
While swiveling her jet-black, adorably shaped eyes about to survey her surroundings, when she suddenly looked ahead, there before her—faintly visible through the water—were human figures on land, the hues of plants and trees, and even the colors of houses.
“Oh!”
The mermaid let out a small cry—a mixture of surprise and joy—and stared fixedly at the spot as if doubting her own eyes.

Humans named "woman"—who shared her name—robed in garments of white, crimson, and pale purple walked lightly on two legs; grasses bore five-colored flowers amidst green leaves; and houses gleamed white and ocher amidst them all under the spring sunlight.
Such a somehow unfamiliar and novel scene was clearly reflected in the mermaid’s innocent eyes.
The mermaid who had harbored an intense longing for the land over many long years gazed upon it without ever tiring.
Before long, as the sun had set, the mermaid returned to her dwelling through the dusky gloom; yet try as she might, she could not forget the vivid hues of those women’s robes or the colors of plants and trees.
After that, day after day, she would entrust herself to this rock and gaze out at the world beyond.
At first, merely gazing had satisfied the mermaid's heart, but now she began wishing desperately to join their midst and live as she desired—this longing proved no less intense than her previous yearning to behold the land.
One day, the mermaid—enticed by this formidable power of the inner worm in her heart—tried climbing up from that rock, trembling all the while with terror as she ascended higher and higher.
Gradually, the colors of the women’s robes became distinct, and the green of the plants and trees grew more vivid.
As if lured by those colors, the mermaid rose ever more swiftly from the calm waves’ depths.
As her silvery scales glimmered fleetingly amidst the waves, the mermaid’s body now skimmed the water’s surface—her head and beautiful face blazing dazzlingly in the warm sunlight.
Smoothly approaching the shore, she concealed herself in the shadow of a large rock and listened to the crowd's boisterous chatter and faint rustling of silk garments.
As though struck by love, enraptured and dazedly as if her soul had been stolen away, she gazed in fascination at the scene.
The women’s laughter ringing out so boldly was something she had never heard before, and the way the hems of thin robes fluttered like butterflies was something she had never seen until now.
Due to their beauty and out of envy, the mermaid, writhing her body as though trying to move like those women, was fervently wishing to be admitted into the company of humans.
To the skin of this mermaid—grown as taut as thin silk in the sea's depths where light was faint—the raw, intense sunlight proved too dazzling and too harsh.
The mermaid’s mind gradually grew hazy, then filled with sweet sentiment.
The intense sunlight had finally withered the sea’s beautiful, incomparable flower.

The mermaid with her beautiful, supple form—entranced by the large rock, captivated by sights and sounds—no longer held a soul that would answer when called.
The beautiful, ill-fated flower of the sea quietly fell without a sound.

Wheel of Fortune

There existed an enormous wheel so vast that no matter how wide one opened their eyes, they could not take in its entirety.
From the edge of the wheel protruded large, frightful cold hooks.
A woman gripped the rod extending from its center and turned it as she pleased.
Each time the wheel turned, it inevitably grazed the heads of every human living on Earth once as it moved.
Each time this happened, humans unknowingly found themselves hung one by one—at times being quietly lifted from their place of suspension to great heights only to be suddenly slammed down with tremendous force after lingering there indefinitely; other times being abruptly raised high then plunged low until they teetered on the brink of falling, only to be hoisted up again before being gently lowered to the ground. With every turn of the wheel, humans grew wealthy or destitute, their faces paling or flushing red.
After being tossed about so mercilessly, humans gradually wasted away until they became nothing but skin and bones.

Then the Wheel’s operator declared, “At last—another one dealt with.” “And there’s more to come,” she added while turning the Wheel again.

The Twilight Hour

In the dim light of the Twilight Hour, along the capital’s main avenue, young men and women, an old man, and young children all walked hurriedly as if running from west to east and east to west.
In the Twilight Hour now, to each young woman’s shadow and old man’s form clung a demon—one by one—as faint shades.
The demons with long ears, round eyes, slender bodies, and lengthy tails would each poke their heads out from between people’s sleeves, hems, or sashes whenever passing by. Exchanging glances unseen by humans, they whispered in voices too faint to be heard: "I must gradually lead this young beautiful woman toward a dreadful cliff and give her a final shove off the edge," or "My duty is to torment this splendid youth over money until he ends his own life swiftly." Then, baring yellowed teeth in hee-hee-hee laughter, they trailed after their chosen targets.
The weary people paid no heed to such matters, merely walking hurriedly without pause.

As time gradually passed and moonlight began faintly emerging, the demons coiled their small tails around their backs and declared, “Today’s Twilight Hour is done—until tomorrow.” Slipping stealthily from between sashes and such, they darted through street hollows as if chasing one another, mingling with scurrying fallen leaves to rustle strange noises through the town—rolling past its bounds, traversing its length—before returning to their forest cave dwellings. And with their fearsome mouths, they kept saying, “Tomorrow again, tomorrow again.” The people of the world remained unaware, simply rushing about.