Tonight’s story is rather short, but it is one of the more disturbing ones in Shokoku hyakumonogatari. The final sentence is an example of a feature I love in Japanese foklore, and a way of ending the story that pops up from time to time in this book. It’s the way stories are presented generally without much embellishments or meandering, and get straight to the story. “I heard this from so-and-so,” or “everybody knows this fact,” add a sense of authenticity to these ghost tales — to let you know that these are not stories made up on the spot by the author just to scare you, but creepy stories that were collected and passed down as if they were factual events. The starkness of these stories contrasts a lot with English language horror, which often overflows with descriptors and adjectives that are meant to evoke a mood but don’t add much to the story. These feel stripped down by comparison, but the horror also feels more raw. I prefer it this way.

The Wife of Matsumotoya Kyūbei of Wakayama, Kishū

In Wakayama, Kishū there was a man named Matsumotoya Kyūbei. He lived an affluent life, but he unexpectedly became ill and died. His wife remarried, and her new husband succeeded Kyūbei as his heir. As the years passed, Kyūbei’s daughter grew into a young woman with beautiful features, and her step-father became obsessed with her and, against all propriety, slept with her.

The wife learned of this, but out of concern for public appearances she told nobody, despite the pain it caused her morning and night. Yet before long, everybody found out about it and mocked her husband, calling him a beast. The wife grew sick living with the thought of this, and she died.

Her daughter, glad that her mother was finally out of the way, made all of the proper funeral arrangements, and in preparation to bury her mother’s corpse at dawn, set the casket in the sitting room that night.

Around midnight, the wife got out of the casket, looked around, and then went to the room where her daughter and her husband were sleeping. She bit out her daughter’s throat, then climbed back into the coffin.

Everybody said it was an inevitable outcome. They held a combined funeral for the mother and daughter. Afterwards, the family fell into ruin and perished. A merchant who happened to be there at the time and saw everything came to Kyōto and told this story.

Tonight’s yokai is another daija — a word that covers serpentine creatures all the way from large snakes to dragons. I’m always torn over how to paint these — more snake-like, or more dragon-like? The images in Shokoku hyakumonogatari tend to favor dragon-like depictions, as you can see in the original illustration for this story:

How Baba Kurōzu Defeated a Daija

In Kyūshū there was a rōnin named Baba Kurōzu. He hoped to serve Hosokawa Sansai, but so far his desire had gone unmet.

One day, he went river fishing with four or five men, and along the edge of a certain mountain they found a roughly 1.1 square kilometer marsh. They cast their nets into this and began to relax, when all of a sudden a great roar was heard from the marsh. Smoke began to billow out of it, and then some unknown thing came straight towards them. Everyone was startled and fled. Kurōzu was not the least bit afraid, and he wanted to see what it was no matter what. When he investigated, he discovered a six meter long serpent. Kurōzu thought he would catch the serpent, so he leaped at it, but the serpent coiled itself around Kurōzu and pulled him into the marsh.

The men who fled told everyone about how Kurōzu had been taken by the serpent, and everyone of high and low rank was talking about this story.

Three days later, around noon, Kurōzu came out of the marsh. All of the water in the marsh was stained with blood. When the nets were pulled out, inside of them was the six meter long uwabami, slain by Kurōzu and cut into seven or eight pieces.

Sansai saw this and declared, “Kurōzu is a real warrior.” And he awarded him a salary of 3000 koku. To this day, it is said, his descendants are still serving in Kyūshū.

Tonight’s story deals with something called ayashimi. I chose not to translate this word, because it is vague even in Japanese. Ayashimi means something strange or mysterious, and doesn’t really refer to any specific type of monster or phenomenon. It’s written with the kanji 怪, which is one of the kanji found in the words 妖怪 (yokai) and 怪談 (kaidan). I think it carries with it a nice sound that works better and sounds more mysterious than simply translating it as “strange phenomenon.”

This story is another one that I find quite funny. Or at least absurd. Dōkan’s explanations and brushing off of these strange occurrences gives off some real “ackchyually” vibes. Especially how he just casually handles the revelation at the end.

How Ōno Dōkan Was Unfazed by Ayashimi

One day, a man named Ōno Dōkan went hunting. In the mountains, a single matsutake mushroom the size of an umbrella sprouted up in the path after Dōkan passed by. His servants saw this and were astonished, and called out to Dōkan.

Dōkan turned around and said, “There’s nothing strange about this. Matsutake mushrooms can grow to this size. Now if it had sprouted upside-down, that would be strange…”

He continued on his way, and ahead of him he saw on the path ahead another matsutake mushroom, growing upside-down.

His servants grew even more astonished, but Dōkan said, “Since I was just talking about them growing upside-down, there’s nothing strange about this either.” Then they returned home.

On the first day of the following year, the iron trivet in the hearth started to dance around the room. The servants were astonished and called out to Dōkan.

Dōkan said to them, “Humans walk about with just two legs, but a trivet has three legs, so there’s nothing strange about one walking around or dancing.” And he didn’t let it concern him at all.

However, in the summer of that year, his only daughter died. It occurred to him later that this may have been due to these mysterious phenomena.

Tonight’s story features a character who was popular in folklore throughout much of Japaense history: Otohime. She is the princess of the sea, daughter of the king of the sea, and technically also a dragon. The most famous story about her is the tale of Urashima Taro, but she is such a major figure in folklore that countless spin-off tales have been cooked up by people for hundreds of years. There are even books of what you could call Edo period “fan fiction” about her. So just by mentioning her name in the title of this tale, an Edo period reader would have known what this story was about, despite the fact that the text itself doesn’t mention her name or give any explanation as to why she does what she does. We already know that Otohime is a serpent, and that she has a thing for handsome young human men.

Speaking of Otohime, my newest book The Palace of the Dragon King is available on the yokai.com shop! This book is, like its predecessors, an illustrated encyclopedia of yokai; but this one has a special focus on aquatic yokai and an en entire chapter dedicated to the inhabitants of Ryugu, the castle that serves as home to Otohime and the oceanic royal family. Paperbacks, hardcovers, and collector’s editions are now available!

Otohime of Ryūgū’s Infatuation with Igarashi Heiemon’s Son

During the Genkyū era (1204-06), there was a rōnin in Kamisakamoto named Igarashi Heiemon, and he had one son. The boy was beautiful, with perfect features, and everyone was obsessed with him and constantly fought for his attention. His parents thought that this would be a burden on him, so they sent him up to Mt. Hiei to study.

One time the boy took a vacation to Karasaki, and while relaxing underneath a pine tree, a beautiful girl around 15 or 16 years old appeared out of nowhere and approached him.

She asked him, “Where are you from? I live near here, and I always come to this pine tree to relax. Come sit with me and watch the boats leaving from the north.”

The boy accepted her invitation, and joined the girl at the water’s edge. She seemed to cling to his sleeve, and then all of a sudden she turned into a serpent, wrapped around the boy seven times, and leaped into the sea. At that moment, the sky suddenly filled with dark clouds, heavy rain fell, and the sea became covered in white-crested waves.

Tonight’s story is another one featuring snakes. This one was a struggle to translate because it contains my least favorite thing to translate: poetry.

Poetry is hard to translate in any language, but I think it’s especially difficult between Japanese and English. That:s because the things that make poetry beautiful in each of these languages are totally different from each other, and it all gets lost in translation.

Japanese poems have specific rules, and are usually restricted to specific rhythmic templates. If you went to school in the US, you probably remember studying haiku or tanka at some point. I remember absolutely hating haiku especially when I was younger. I thought it was lame, boring, made no sense, and had absolutely no artistic value to it. To be honest, I still do a little bit, at least when it comes to English haiku. Japanese haiku, on the other hand, is gorgeous. And I never knew it until I actually started reading them in Japanese.

That’s because everything that is beautiful about Japanese poetry is bleached away when it is translated, leaving it just a husk of what it once was. For example, the short length of these poems means that words must be chosen very carefully; but because of the nature of the Japanese language, there are tons of homophones to choose from. Thus, Japanese poems can be deeply metaphoric, containing 2 or more entirely different meanings that change depending on who is speaking, who is listening, or other context. They also sometimes reference classical Japanese or Chinese works, which only make sense when when the reader has knowledge of those. You simply can’t translate something with that much contextual information packed into such a short phrase. Translators have to make a lot of hard decisions on how to translate a particular poem, and doing so strips it of its alternate meanings, its literary references, and of course the beautiful rhythmic structure that gives it its flow.

It’s not a one way problem. In the same way, Shakespeare simply fails in Japanese, and don’t even think about trying to translate limericks. Some things can only really be enjoyed in their native languages.

So with that in mind, please forgive my awkward translations of the three poems in this story. I’ve translated their literal meaning, but they retain none of the grace and beauty that they had in the original Japanese. Each of these poems contains double meanings, referring to the falls themselves and also to cloth or weaving. This is because Nunobiki Falls literally means “cloth pulling” falls, presumably because of the way the water looks like threads pouring down the mountain. The lack of a graceful way of translating them really frustrates me, and it cheapens the women’s brilliance and their impact on the story. Sorry, this is the best I could do for A-Yokai-A-Day.

The Incident at Nunobiki Falls, Settsu Province; or, The Pilgrims’ Poems

Nunobiki Falls in Settsu Province is a place where women are forbidden to enter; yet, one time, three women came here together and asked the chief priest, “We have heard that there is a famous place called Nunobiki Falls on this mountain. Please show it to us.”

The chief priest was surprised and said, “Now, now, where did you all come from? This mountain is off limits to women. Leave this mountain immediately.”

To this, one of the women composed a poem:

What is the point of folding up clothes and hiding them away in the mountains? Let the people see Nunobiki Falls.

And the three women turned to leave.

The priest thought these women seemed to have a special quality, so he decided to show them the waterfall. When he took them to see it, the women gazed at the waterfall and were delighted. The priest said, “Let this mountain be a story told for years to come. The other two ladies should each compose a poem as well.”

One woman said:

Long have I thought about this woven cloth. Today I cut and dyed it, and now I have worn it.

The other woman said:

The villagers of Settsu Province‘s Ikuta and Koyano see these Nunobiki Falls without leaving home.

Then the three women approached the base of the waterfall and seemed to wash their hands in the water, but then all three of them turned into three meter long serpents and climbed up to the top of the waterfall.

Tonight’s story talks about a snake who shapeshifts into a man, but this time the Japanese uses the term daija to refer to the snake. This is a trickier word to translate. Daija literally means “giant snake,” but they are often depicted as more than just snakes. Of course we see that they can shapeshift into human form and speak. They are often described as nushi, or guardian deities, of bodies of water. They can also covet humans sometimes and even demand human sacrifices; there are lots of old tales where a young virgin “marries” a daija as a euphemism for drowning her in the lake as a human sacrifice. The term daija can also refer not just to very big snakes, but greater monsters like uwabami or even dragons.

Speaking of dragons… my latest yokai encyclopedia, The Palace of the Dragon King, is now available from the yokai.com online shop, along with restocks of collector’s editions and hardbacks of my other books as well. So check that out if you want even more illustrated yokai!

How Hasegawa Chōzaemon’s Daughter Showed Love to a Crab

In Iyo-Matsuyama there was a man named Hasegawa Chōzaemon. He had one daughter. She was a woman with a beautiful face and a gentle spirit, who composed poems and sang songs, read and studied all of the sutras and holy scriptures, and had a deeply compassionate heart. One time she found a small crab in the wash bucket, and she scooped it up, fed it and cared for it, and loved it for a long time.

There was a deep pond near their estate. The serpent who ruled over this pond became obsessed with the girl and came to her, disguised as a man. He said to Chōzaemon, “I am the serpent who lives in the pond nearby. I have become infatuated with your daughter, so please give her to me.”

Chōzaemon thought that if he said no, the serpent would kill both him and his daughter, but he also did not want to give her to the serpent, so he broke down into tears. His daughter told him, “It is unavoidable. I must lay down my own life to save my father’s. This must be my karma from my past lives. You should give him your answer right away.”

Chōzaemon turned to the serpent and said, sobbing, “I will give you my daughter.”

The serpent was delighted. He set a date for the exchange and then left.

The girl turned to the crab and said, “I have loved you for many years, but now my life is almost over, and I must set you free.” She set the crab down in the grass and it ran away.

When the appointed date came, the serpent came into their garden, accompanied by many snakes, large and small. The horror was indescribable. The girl did not show the least bit of fear, and, carrying a crystal rosary in her right hand and the five scrolls of the Lotus Sutra in her left hand, she quickly went out into the garden.

As she did, perhaps due to the power of the sutra she carried, the snakes all suddenly drew back in fear. Then, suddenly, countless large crabs came out of nowhere and swarmed the garden. They attacked the snakes, grabbing them with their claws. The snakes were so terrified that they all fled. It truly was the power of the sutras, and the depth of the daughter’s compassion, that saved their lives.

Horror stories often use moments of comic relief to break up the tension so things don’t get too oppressive. Shokoku hyakumonogatari is no different. There are a few humorous stories scattered throughout the collection, and these do a great job to shake up the emotions of the reader and keep you wondering what will come next.

I imagine these kind of silly episodes helped to keep listeners’ moods up during long hyakumonogatari ghost story telling parties on Edo’s hot summer nights. Tonight’s story is a great example of part-horror, part-humor, with a fantastic punch line at the end.

How a Madwoman Was Mistaken for a Ghost

A certain man was on his way to the capital from the eastern provinces when the sun went down. It started raining and he had no place to stay, so he walked here and there until he found a shelter made of brushwood.

He entered the shelter and said, “Please let me stay the night.”

The owner came out and said, “It’s no trouble at all.”

The owner welcomed the traveler inside and asked him to light a fire as a favor; night was encroaching, and it was already 10 pm. The owner’s wife appeared ill; and later that night she died.

The owner said, “I will go to the temple and ask for a priest. Please watch over her while I am away.” Then he left.

The traveler felt uneasy. He had no choice except to stay there and watch over the house, but something about it made his hairs stand on end with fear. Occasionally, a woman around 20 years old, with a pale complexion and blackened teeth, came out of the closet and grinned at him. The traveler fainted.

As the traveler shrank back and cowered, the owner returned. The traveler was glad to see him and said, “Just now something incredible happened! It seems your wife is not yet dead. Just a moment ago, she stood in the closet door and smiled at me.”

The owner was astonished and opened the closet door to see, but his wife was as dead as she had been. He thought something was strange, so he searched around and discovered that a madwoman who lived next door and often loitered nearby was standing by the back door. He beckoned the traveler over and asked, “Was this who you saw?”

When he saw the woman, the traveler fainted again.