The One-Eyed God

by Ueda Akinari

translated by Michael Wooff

“People from Azuma are barbarous, lacking in culture. How could one of them become a poet?” So say those who don’t live in this northeastern corner of Honshu.

In Sagami Province, near Cape Koyurugi, there lived a young man who was equable by nature and who, in everything he did, strove for the highest degree of elegance and perfection. His most earnest wish was to move to the capital in order to study the art of writing poetry. How happy he would be, he thought, if a noble adopted him and made himself his master! Surely people would say then: “You are like a child in the forest to whom it is given to rest in the shade of a cherry tree in blossom.” And, as he clung to this thought, his longing to go west to Kyoto grew stronger and stronger.

So one day he said to his parents:

The nightingale. too,
In rural country places
Often makes its nest.
Who has ever heard it sing
In a gloomy downcast voice?

He sought in this way to obtain his parents’ blessing for his journey.

However, his parents replied: “The Onin War still rages in the land. All the roads are blocked. Travel is difficult everywhere.” They tried to dissuade their son from implementing his plan. But he would not back down and said: “My mind is made up. I have decided to make this journey.”

His mother, who, even though not wholly heartless like an angry demon, had had her heart hardened by all the upheavals of that era, gave her permission, albeit reluctantly, and said: “Go then, and come back again quickly!” When her son took his leave of her and embarked on his journey, she concealed her sadness.

The young man had, nevertheless, prior to departure, taken care to furnish himself with the necessary travel documents, so he was allowed to pass through the numerous roadblock checkpoints unhindered. He finally arrived in Omi Province but, from sheer joy that he would, the following day, reach the capital, he had neglected to seek out overnight accommodation. He therefore made his way towards Oiso Wood where he thought he would spend the night on the forest floor.

Penetrating deeper and deeper into the wood in order to find a pine from which to keep a lookout and whose roots might serve as pillows, he ended up standing in front of a mighty tree that lay across his path and which, apparently, had been made to fall down, not by the wind but by decomposition.

After a brief hesitation he carefully placed his foot on the trunk and, immediately, a strange feeling came over him. For a moment he was frightened and stopped. The way before him was covered in dead leaves and branches and the going was so heavy that it was as if he were struggling through a deep morass. How much to be pitied he was! For wetness was already oozing over the hem of his coat.

When, after a while, he looked up again, there stood before him, as if it had grown up from the ground, a small wayside temple. The roof hung slanting at an angle, and the steps, too, that led up to the altar room were broken. Everywhere you looked, grass was growing man-high and the rocky ground was in its entirety covered with moss.

Only one spot was free of lush vegetation and showed traces that might lead one to suppose that someone had camped there the night before. The young man plucked up courage to spend the night himself in this place. He took the rucksack off his shoulders, intending to rest for a bit, but the feeling of unease would not leave him and only became more pronounced. Through the boughs of high trees, the shining stars were visible, but the moon lay hidden behind the treetops, which made the night mist seem even colder.

The wanderer remarked to himself that he could count on the weather being fine the next day, spread out his mat and tried to sleep.

How startled he was when, suddenly, various figures approached. The first in the file was a tall man carrying a spear. He was, to all intents and purposes, a Shinto priest. He reminded the young man of Sarutahiko, the heavenly messenger, who indicated to the gods in ancient times the way to earth.

This Shinto priest was followed by a mountain hermit, the sleeves of whose robe, worn to shoulder height, were the orange colour of persimmons, and he bore in his hand a pilgrim’s staff, hung with iron rings, which he constantly shook.

Behind him came a courtly lady in a white kimono and red hakama, the freshly starched hem of which rustled with each step she took. On closer inspection, one became aware that the lovely face hidden by her cypress wood fan was that of a white fox.

Bringing up the rear, somewhat stiffly, came a young maidservant, and she too was a fox-woman.

After they had positioned themselves before the shrine, the Shinto priest, spear in hand, started to chant a litany in a loud voice. It was not yet midnight but, as the voice echoed chillingly back from the wood, it struck the young man as uncanny.

Just then the hinged door of the shrine was thrown open with a crack, and the young man looked up in terror. A bizarre being emerged, his straggly hair hanging unkempt upon his face, and there shone, on his brow, a single great eye. His broad mouth stretched from ear to ear. On his face was either a nose, or not a nose, for what there was there was so flat that one hardly knew if it was possible to describe it as such.

His formerly white kimono was worn and grey. Over it, he was wearing a plain lilac-coloured hakama that seemed to be brand new. In his right hand, he was holding a fan made of bird feathers. His appearance conveyed to the young man a feeling of the utmost fear.

The Shinto priest now raised his voice and spoke to the wondrous being: “Hear me, One-Eyed God! This mountain hermit here left Kyushu yesterday and went by way of Sanyo-do to the capital. While he was there, he received a commission from a gentleman in high society that brought him here. So he thought it was only right he should pay you a visit. He has brought you from the mountains as a present meat roasted in oil and, from the sea, two fresh sea bass. The latter were caught by his servants off the coast at Matsue in Izumo Province and transported as quickly as possible this morning to Kyoto. He wants to prepare for you a meal from these ingredients he’s brought with him while they’re still fresh.”

At this the mountain hermit interjected: “My daimyo, who lives in the capital, has charged me to deliver a message to the Governor of Azuma, as he would like to impart to him a piece of advice. I am to tell him that he is to prevent any escalation of the current conflict in his area.”

To this the one-eyed god replied: “Our province, hemmed in by Lake Biwa, is devoid of life’s luxuries. We lack mountain delicacies, and even the sea is sparing with its gifts. So let’s make a meal of these things with all due alacrity and fill the bowls with rice wine.”

The young maidservant with the face of a fox got up and collected dry leaves, dried up branches and pine cones to then fan into flame a fire in an old, dilapidated oven, which had formerly served just to heat up water.

The blazing flames illuminated in a trice even the wood’s darkest corners. An awful fear came over the young man. He pulled his hat of reeds down over his face and pretended to be sleeping. He anxiously wondered what was going to happen to him and came close to losing his mind.

The one-eyed god commanded in a stentorian voice: “Quickly now, warm up the rice wine!” And right away, with halting steps, drew near to him a monkey and a hare, over whose shoulders lay a long stick, from which there hung a sizeable jug full of rice wine. When the god exhorted them to hurry even faster, they apologized: “Forgive us. Our shoulders are weak!”

Meanwhile the young maidservant had brought out seven earthenware rice bowls, piled them on top of each other and set them down before the god. The courtly lady with the face of a fox filled the topmost bowl with rice wine and held it out to him, while the young servant, her sleeves bound up with yarn from a spindle, diligently stoked the fire and heated up a new batch of rice wine.

The courtly lady now took the top four bowls from the pile and filled the fifth to hand that to the god. He proceeded to also empty this and then said: “How delicious, how delicious!” before having the bowl filled again and giving it to the mountain hermit with these words: “Tengu-san, you are our guest of honour today.”

And, without pausing for breath, he added: “Yes, and call over that young lad there who’s got his head down on that bed of pine tree roots and is making out he’s sleeping. He too shall keep us company!”

The courtly lady went over to the young man and said: “You’re being called for!”

Then the latter crept fearfully forward, feeling more dead than alive.

The god extended to him the fourth of the bowls of rice wine and invited him to partake of it. The young man, apart from being in no way fond of rice wine, thought to himself there was nothing else for it and emptied the bowl in one long swallow.

Then the god addressed the assembled company: “Give him some of the roast meat, too, or some of the fish, whatever he wants!” Then he turned once again to the young man: “So you’re going to the capital to dedicate yourself to the study of poetry. But it’s too late for that now. Had you been born four or five hundred years earlier you might well have found a good teacher. In an age like the one we’re living in, full of wars and rumours of wars, there’s no-one with sufficient leisure time to read the old writings and extend their knowledge of them.

“There are indeed a number of nobles who have been robbed of their estates and who, now that they have nothing left, in order to scrape a living, declare that they possess this or that secret art passed on to them by their ancestors. They sell it on to newly rich city dwellers and uncouth fighting men who fail to notice how much they are being duped. Foolish disciples heap presents on their teachers and beg to be instructed by them.

“It was ever the prerogative of those of noble birth and refined taste to devote themselves during their leisure hours to the arts and enjoy doing so. What good does it do to chatter idly about some secret ability in the matter that has been handed down through generations? Someone who has talent can be clearly differentiated from someone who hasn’t. Not every clever father succeeds in transmitting his cleverness to his progeny.

“And is it not true, at the end of the day, that someone who aspires to be a poet needs to pick up writing for himself? How can you possibly learn it just from being taught it? There are certainly arts that require the leading hand of a master to begin with. He who wants to be a master must himself erect the signposts that direct him to the finer points of what he does.

“People in Azuma are wild and rustic. They do not restrain their garrulousness, which is living proof of their stupidity, and whoever appears to them at first glance to be clever is in fact just wily and sly. You can’t trust them. And my advice to you is this: Go back to your region and seek out there a true master, one who lives secluded from worldly concerns, so that you can learn from him! Only once you’ve found the truth that lies behind external things are you able to say that the art you practise has become an integral part of you. And now drink some rice wine; the night has grown cold!”

From the back of the shrine a Buddhist monk approached and said: “The commandment to abstain from rice wine is soon broken. Intoxication too soon passes. Tonight a small bowlful won’t hurt me.” So saying, he sat down to the left of the god. On his face, which was round and broad, his eyes and nose were clearly visible. He put the great bag he had with him down next to him. “Up you get,” he cried. “Give me that bowl!”

The courtly lady took the aforementioned container from what was left of the stack and gave it to him. Afterwards, she fanned herself and started to sing a banquet song in words from a poem dating back to the Ten Thousand Leaves compiled in the Tang-Nara era. Her voice was as graceful as that of a young girl’s, but there was also something strange, even uncanny, about it.

The Buddhist monk called out jokingly to her: “As much as you endeavour to keep your fan raised, there’s no hiding your long, bushy tail. How could anyone dare to tease you by pulling at your sleeve?”

At this, he turned to the young man and said: “Young man, you would do well to take the god’s advice and go back to your own area. Up in the mountains and down on the plain., robbers are always up to mischief. They won’t let you leave there unshorn. That you have come through unscathed on your journey so far is as marvellous as a manifestation of the Udumbara flower, which only blossoms every three thousand years. Given that the mountain hermit finds himself on a mission to Azuma, it would be good for you if you could latch onto him so as to get back home as fast as possible. The commandment not to leave one’s parents for as long as they both live should be familiar to at least one person from Azuma!” And, as he was speaking, he handed the young man a bowl filled with rice wine.

Then he went on: “How disgusting is the smell of this fish!” From his bag he extracted a hard and dried-up turnip and started to gnaw at it. His face wore an expression of childlike pleasure which had, at the same time, something spectral about it.

The young man replied: “As you all, noble gentlemen, have given me the same advice, I shall gladly take it to heart. It was indeed my aim to be in the capital tomorrow morning, but I’ve given up that idea. Instead, I’ll do what you’ve advised me to do. I will read what writings are available for me to read and devote myself to the art of writing poetry. I too, in the final analysis, who am nothing more than a simple fisherman from Koyurugi, have already discovered a signpost on my path I’ve decided to follow.” He said this most cheerfully.

After the rice wine bowls had done the rounds many times over, a voice suddenly cried: “It’s getting light!”

The Shinto priest, deep in his cups, gripped his spear and began to chant out loud a litany. His shrivelled face lent him a rather comical appearance.

The mountain hermit spoke next: “The time has come for me to say farewell.” And, as he lifted up his staff with the iron rings, he invited the young man to take hold of it.

The god gripped his fan and said: “Ichimokuren, the one-eyed god himself, is also here and he doesn’t leave his hands lying idle in his lap!” And already he had blown the young man with a single movement of his fan high in the air. The monkey and the hare clapped their paws delightedly and shrieked with laughter. The mountain hermit, marking time while hovering over the treetops, caught the young man and wedged him under his arm before flying off with him.

The Buddhist monk roared with laughter: “That boy! Did you see that boy?” He grabbed his linen bag and swung it over his shoulder. Then he slipped on his flat wooden sandals and tottered off. He looked the spitting image of the pot-bellied god with the big sack, Hotei, as painters often portray him in their pictures.

The Shinto priest and the Buddhist monk were ordinary mortals. Nevertheless, they rubbed shoulders with supernatural beings without ever falling foul of their power or causing others to be subject to enchantments. They lived to a ripe old age, to an age when men’s hair turns grey.

As it was now broad daylight, each of them returned to his respective dwelling in the heart of the forest. Before he went, the Shinto priest announced to the fox-woman and the young maidservant, who was also a fox spirit, that they could spend the night here. And he disappeared inside the temple with them.

The Shinto priest wrote down everything that had come to pass that night. Each day of his life — and he lived to be a hundred years old — he practised the art of calligraphy. His writing was clumsy, characterized by thick, black brushstrokes. Hardly anyone could decipher them. Of the characters that he was wont to write cursively, many were wrong. But he himself was quite convinced that his writing was splendid and well-nigh perfect.