Kappa Page 2
The samurai ordered the curious people away, and when he was alone with the kappa, he proposed to let him go with his right arm if he would tell him how the wonderful medicine was prepared. The kappa complied, and the formula has been handed down to this day as a family secret.
—Saiyū Kembun Zuihitsu, A Trip to Western Provinces.
There are numerous kappas around Kumamoto and Yatsushiro in the province of Higo, Kyūshū. But they never do any harm to the people there.
Kiyomasa Katō, who was lord daimio of the province, and whose name is a household word in Japan, one day went fishing to a river, when one of his favorite pages was drowned by a kappa. The governor-general got very angry and ordered every kappa in his province to be destroyed.
Hundreds of Buddhist priests were called together to chant incantations to prevent the kappas from leaving the province. The streams were poisoned. Thousands of heated stones were thrown into the pools, and as many monkeys as could be found were brought from the mountains. For hot water robs the kappa of its strength, and while the monkey grows stronger at the sight of a kappa, the kappa cowers before a monkey just as the mouse does before a cat.
The kappas were hard pressed. They grew sick and dizzy. At last Kyūsenbō, the head of the nine thousand kappas, begged forgiveness through the priests, promising that they would never again do any harm to the people in that province. They were forgiven, and have since kept their word faithfully.
—Honchō Zokugenshi, Things Seen and Heard, published 1746.
In the era of Kan-ei (1624-1644) there lived in Kyūshū a samurai whose name was Hachizaemon. One day during his stay at Arima, he saw a kappa lying fast asleep on the bank of a pond, and without warning struck at it with his sword. He felt that the blow was effective, but before he could make sure the kappa had vanished. He looked round in vain for the body, and returned to his town about a hundred miles away.
Three years passed, and on September 14th, the kappa called on Hachizaemon and challenged him to a duel, saying that he had recovered from the wound inflicted at Arima and come to settle the account. Hachizaemon welcomed him and led him into the garden. A fierce combat followed. Both fought well, the samurai with his favorite sword and the kappa with something like a young twig of a plum-tree. They fought more than five hours till about eight o'clock in the evening, and the issue was still doubtful. So they laid down their arms and parted, promising to fight it out the next day. The samurai's family and servants, who could not see the kappa, thought that he had gone crazy. But when he told them all about the strange duel, they were deeply impressed with his skill in swordsmanship and the sense of honor displayed by the kappa.
Next day the lord of the province came to see the fight. He put his men around the house to prevent the kappa from escaping. But the kappa did not show up, and the daimio returned to his castle displeased.
That night the kappa stole into Hachizaemon's bedroom and awoke him to bid him farewell. He had come all the way from Arima to avenge himself, but, he said, now that the lord daimio interfered, he had to give up the fight and go home.
The kappa could have delivered a blow on the sleeping samurai, but he was too proud to do so.
—Shokusanjin.
One day a kappa asked a pack-horse driver to give him a lift. When he got off, he refused to pay the fare, saying that the driver had given him an unnecessary pain by binding him too tightly to the horse. So the driver took the kappa to the court to get the dispute settled.
The judge wanted to know how much pain the kappa had suffered, and ordered the driver to bind the defendant just as tightly as he had bound him to the horse. The driver did as he was told. But the kappa insisted that he had been bound much more tightly. The honest driver grew angry and tightened the rope with a vengeance, until the kappa screamed with pain and begged to be unbound. The judge made him pay the money and let him go.
This last story was told by my friend Morinaga-san, who once asked me whether the kappa had a navel. At another time he asked a similar question about the frog. What on earth has a navel to do with us, one may ask, when the whole human race has gone crazy? But if men looked at each other's navel, instead of looking into each other's eyes, they would always find some way to settle their disputes amicably. For the navel never hates, nor loves, as the eyes do. It simply sits there on the peaceful belly, smiling philosophically.
I studied several kappas in old pictures. None had a navel. Then I came upon another picture in Mr. Hino's new book entitled "Kappa Ascends to Heaven." It was a modern-looking kappa, with a tie round his neck, fishing alone. There was a distinct mark on his belly.
Kyoto, 1940.
KAPPA
KAPPAS IN CONVERSE
By R. Akutagawa
PREFACE
This is a story Patient No. 23 of a lunatic asylum tells anybody he comes across. I think he is over thirty now, but he looks very young for his age. The joys and sorrows he had experienced before he went off his head—well, let them be buried in the past. He told his lengthy story to me and Dr. S—, head physician of the asylum, his hands clasped all the time round his knees, and his eyes looking now and then out of the iron bars of the window—outside of which was seen an oak tree, quite bare, without even a single dead leaf, spreading its branches against the sky darkened by snow-clouds. He made very few gestures, but when for instance he said he had been surprised, he suddenly threw his head back....
I flatter myself that I have copied his narrative with tolerable accuracy. But if you are not satisfied with my notes, go and see him for yourselves at the S— Lunatic Asylum in the village of._ just outside the city of Tokyo. Patient No. 23 will greet you with a deep bow, and motion you to a hard-seated chair. Then, with a gloomy smile, he will quietly repeat his story. And when he comes to the end of the story—I still remember the sudden change of expression on his face—he will spring to his feet and, brandishing his clenched fists, will roar at you:
"Get out, you scoundrel! You too are a stupid, jealous, obscene, brazen-faced, self-conceited, cruel, and cheeky beast, aren't you? Get out, you sneaking little scoundrel!"
I
One summer morning three years ago, I left an inn at Kamikōchi hot spring to climb Mt. Hodaka, with a rucksack on my back. As you know, the ascent of Mt. Hodaka can only be made by following up the narrow valley of the Azusagawa. I had climbed that mountain before, and even Mt. Yarigadake. So I went up the valley without a guide, although it was very foggy that morning.
For about an hour, which seemed to me a very long time, I walked in the fog, but there was no sign of its lifting. On the contrary it grew thicker. It grew so thick that I almost made up my mind to go back to the inn at Kamikōchi. But it was of course impossible to go back unless the fog lifted, and the beastly blur kept growing thicker and thicker. “Damn it! Better go up," I said to myself and struggled on through the tall growth of bamboo-grass, taking great care not to go astray from the watercourse.
I could see nothing but a wall of dense fog, though the monotony was broken at intervals by fresh green leaves on low-hanging branches of a beech or of a fir tree. Grazing horses and cows also loomed unexpectedly before me, but they were blotted out in an instant. In the meantime hunger and weariness got the better of me, and my wet clothes and blankets were heavier than I could easily bear. I gave in at last, and, guided by the sound of the water running against the rocks, groped my way down to the bottom of the valley.
I sat down on a rock by the stream to take a meal. I think I had spent about ten minutes cutting open a tin of corned beef; gathering dead twigs and making a fire. Meanwhile the fog was lifting fast, as if it had brought me all the way down for the sole purpose of making a fool of me. Biting at a piece of bread, I looked at my wrist-watch. It was already twenty minutes past one. But what surprised me more was a strange, weird-looking face reflected for an instant upon the round glass of the watch. I looked back, and for the first time in my life I saw a—kappa! It was standing on a rock behind me, with one arm round the trunk of a white birch and one hand shading its eyes, watching me with intense curiosity.
I was taken aback, and for a while sat motionless. The kappa seemed frightened too. The hand over its eyebrows did not make the slightest movement. Then suddenly I jumped to my feet and sprang upon it. The kappa took to its heels. I thought it did. As it was, it made a dodge and was gone. I looked round in amazement through the tall bamboo-grass, and found it a few yards away looking back at me, ready at any moment to fly. But there was nothing strange in that. The odd thing about the devil was the color of its skin. When it was on the rock watching me it was grey all over. Now it was green from top to toe! “Confound you!” I cried out, and again sprang upon it. Of course it ran away. And for more than half an hour I gave it a furious chase through the bamboo-grass and over the rocks.
The kappa was a very good runner, by no means slower than a monkey. Many a time, while running after it like one in a delirium, I was on the point of losing sight of it. Many a time I slipped and fell. But when the kappa came to a place where a huge horse-chestnut tree spread its boughs, a fierce-looking ox with powerful horns and blood-shot eyes blocked its way. The kappa gave a strange scream, and jumped head over heels into an unusually tall growth of bamboo-grass. “Now I've got it," I said to myself, and—and in no time jumped in after it. But there was a pit or something, I suppose, which I did not see. For hardly had I touched the smooth back of the kappa when I fell head forward into deep darkness. Now even at such a moment of crisis the human mind indulges in the most unimportant thoughts. The moment I was off my feet I thought of the Kappa-bashi, a bridge near the inn at Kamikōchi hot spring. And then—well, I do not remember what happened after that. I only saw something like a flash of lightning before my eyes, and lost all consciousn
ess.
II
When at last I came round, I found myself lying on my back surrounded by a large number of kappas. One of them, who wore pince-nez over his thick beak, was kneeling beside me, listening to my chest with a stethoscope. When I opened my eyes, he motioned me to keep quiet, and called to some one at his back:
“Quax, quax!”
Presently two kappas came up with a stretcher. I was laid upon it, and was carried gently for several hundred yards through crowds and crowds of kappas. The street looked very much like the Ginza (main street in Tokyo). Behind the beech-trees that lined it on both sides could be seen all kinds of shops with sunshades, and between those rows of trees numberless motor-cars were running to and fro.
Soon my stretcher turned into a narrow by-street, and was carried into a house. It was the dwelling place, as I learned later, of that kappa who was wearing pince-nez—a doctor called Chack. Chack laid me down on a neat bed, and gave me a glass of some transparent liquid medicine. I lay quietly on the bed, and let him do what he pleased with me, for I was aching so badly in every joint that I could scarcely move.
Chack came to see me two or three times every day. And Bag the fisher-kappa—I mean that kappa I had met in that foggy valley —he also called on me at least once in three days. Kappas know much more about human beings than we know about them. Perhaps it is because they capture us more often than we capture them, though, strictly speaking, I am not sure that they exactly capture us. Anyway, quite a number of people had visited the land of kappas before me, and many of them had stayed there till the end of their lives. For in that country we enjoy the privilege of living without working, simply because we are not kappas but human beings. Bag once told me of a young navvy who had come by chance upon the land and married a she-kappa and lived with her until he breathed his last. The she-kappa, Bag said, was not only the prettiest in that country, but was remarkably clever at deceiving her husband.
After a week or so, it was decided, according to the law of that country, that I should live next door to Chack as a "specially protected inhabitant." My house was neat and cozy, though it was rather small. Of course the civilization of kappas does not much differ from that of mankind—at least from that of the Japanese. For instance, there was a small piano in a corner of the drawing-room which faced the street, and a framed etching on the wall. The only complaint I had was that not only the house itself; but the tables and chairs were all made for kappas, and therefore, like children's furniture, were a little too small for me.
Every evening I saw Chack and Bag in this room, that is, in the drawing-room, and learned the kappa language from them. Of course I had many other visitors. I was a "specially protected inhabitant" as I said before, and naturally every kappa desired to have a look at me. Gael, for example, often came to see me. He was the president of a glass manufacturing company, and used to send for Chack every day to have his blood pressure examined. But my best friend during the first two weeks or so was Bag the fisher-kappa.
One late afternoon—I remember the air was moist and warmish—we were talking in my drawing-room with a table between us, when suddenly he fell into silence, and, with his large eyes wide open, began staring at me. I did not see what he meant, so I asked in the kappa language:"Quax, Bag, quo quel quan?" (I say, Bag, what's the matter?)
Bag said nothing, but kept staring at me. Then he jumped to his feet, stuck out his tongue, and showed signs of springing upon me like a frog. I was frightened and rose stealthily from my seat and was just about to dash out of the room when, to my great joy, Doctor Chack came in.
"Hey, Bag, what are you doing?"
Chack glared at Bag through his pince-nez.
Bag looked crestfallen, and, raising his hand over and over again to his head apologetically, said:
“I'm sorry, sir. Awfully sorry. But it was really so amusing to see this gentleman scared that I couldn't help playing a little joke on him."
Then he turned to me and added, "I beg your pardon, sir."
III
Before proceeding further, I think I must give you some idea of the animals called kappas. People still doubt whether they exist at all. But they do. There can be no doubt about it since I myself actually lived among them. They have a short-haired head and webbed hands and feet, like those pictures in the Suiko Kōryaku (A Study of the Water-tiger) and other books. Their average height is about three feet four inches. Their weight ranges from twenty to thirty pounds, according to Doctor Chack, though he says that there are some extraordinarily big ones who weigh more than fifty. The top of their heads is concave, forming an oval, dish-like hollow, and this dish seems to grow harder with years. For instance, old Bag's dish was quite different to the touch from young Chack's. But what is most remarkable about kappas is that unlike human beings they change color according to their surroundings. For instance, when they are in the grass they are just as green as the grass, and when they are on a rock they are just as grey as the rock. I think they have something in their skin tissue that chameleons have in theirs, for chameleons, you know, have the power of changing color. The discovery of this strange fact reminded me of a book of folklore which says that the kappas of western Japan are green and those of north-eastern districts red. It also brought back to my mind how Bag had disappeared in that foggy valley when I had tried to catch him.
It seems that kappas have a very rich deposit of fat beneath their skin. They never clothe themselves in spite of the comparatively low temperature—about fifty degrees F. — of their underground country. Of course they wear spectacles, and carry cigarette cases and pocket-books and other things with them. But they get along very well without clothes or pockets, because, like kangaroos, they have a nice pouch on their bellies. One thing that struck me as being very funny was that they did not even wear a loin-cloth. I once asked Bag why they didn't. He went off into a fit of laughter, and, with his body bent back, cackled and cackled away until he said:
"I should like to know what makes you cover yourself."
IV
Little by little I learned the everyday language of kappas, as well as their manners and customs. What puzzled me most was their topsy-turvy way of making fun of what we take seriously, and vice versa. Take for example " justice " and " humanity." They are very serious matters to us. But if you mention these things before kappas, they are sure to shake their sides with laughter. Perhaps it is because their idea of what is funny is entirely different from ours. I was once talking with Doctor Chack about birth control, when suddenly he burst out laughing, his mouth wide open, shaking himself so violently that he nearly dropped his pince-nez. I was naturally offended, and questioned harshly what made him laugh. Chack's answer was something like this—I am not quite sure about the details, because at that time I was not very familiar with the kappa language—but the gist of what he said was something like this:
"But it isn't fair for the parents to care only about their own convenience. It's too selfish, isn't it?"
From our human point of view, there is really nothing more funny than the way in which a kappa gives birth to a child. Shortly after that conversation about birth control, I went to Bag's house to see his wife in childbed. Kappas do the same thing as we do when they lie in. They get a doctor or a midwife to help them. But when at last the child is about to come out, the father puts his mouth at the ....of the mother as if he were on the telephone, and asks in a loud voice:
"Do you wish to be born into this world? Think it over and give your answer."
Crouching on his knees, Bag repeated this question several times. Then he took a bottle of disinfectant from the table and rinsed out his mouth. The child in his wife's womb seemed to be somewhat constrained, for it replied in a very low voice:
"I don't wish to be born. In the first place, I don't like to inherit your blood. The insanity alone is horrible enough to think of. In the second place, I believe in the wickedness of living a kappa's life."