Excerpt from Mermaid Meat: The Secret to Immortality by Brenda Wong Aoki
Black Hair
by Brenda Wong Aoki
This story has haunted me for years. When I researched its origins, I found that it came from one of the oldest collections of Japanese mythology. There is a Japanese phrase, mono no aware, that means “the poignant beauty of the fleetingness of life.” This tale has that kind of feel to it—something that lingers in the air.
Mukashi, mukashi—long, long time ago—there lived in Kyoto a samurai who was reduced to poverty by the ruin of his lord. The samurai had the good fortune to be married to a kind and beautiful wife with clear fair skin, soft brown eyes, and long luxurious hair—blue-black as the night, shining as the stars, and soft as a cloud.
Day after day the samurai sat drowning his sorrows in his sake cup, while day after day his good wife went to the market to sell her jeweled hair ornaments, her silken gowns. The samurai never noticed how she often went hungry so that he could eat his fill. He only sat drowning his sorrows in his sake cup.
One day the samurai looked up. “Hmph!” he said, sulking. “I lose everything, and now I lose all face by wearing rags. How I wish I had a new kimono.”
The next day the samurai awoke at noon as usual and was just about to begin drinking his sake, when he heard Zu ka, zu ka, zu ka. Curious, he got up and followed the sound, until he came to the little room where his wife was working. Sliding open the paper door, he saw her there, with her hair cut as short as a little boy’s, weaving her long silken tresses into cloth from which to make him a kimono.
Day after day she wove, never stopping to eat or sleep, until one day, pale and worn, she came out of the little room, carrying the most wonderful kimono —blue-black as the night, shining as the stars, and soft as a cloud. This she gave to the samurai.
“What kind of kimono is this?” he roared. “It has no crest on it. What kind of samurai would I be with no crest?”
Trembling with fear, his good wife answered, “My love, we are without a master. We have no crest.”
“Then make one up!” said the samurai, with one hand raised to strike her. “Make me a symbol of great power.”
So his good wife took the kimono back into her room. She had no money with which to buy dye or thread, so she bit her little finger until the blood ran crimson. Then in the most exquisite hand, she wrote in blood the symbol for kokoro: heart. This she gave to the samurai.
“Why have you written this on my kimono?” snarled the samurai, his black eyes hard and cold.
“You asked for a symbol of great power. The greatest power in all the world is that of a good heart,” answered his good wife.
“Hmph!” said the samurai. Nevertheless, he was very pleased. You see, he thought that the crest written in blood made him look very brave. He went out into the street to show himself off. As he was strutting up and down the street, he chanced upon a magnificent procession, with 150 banner-men waving purple banners, followed by 300 samurai in full armor. At the center of the procession, on a white stallion bedecked with gold and jewels, sat a fair maid with long beautiful hair, almost as beautiful as his wife’s had been, laughing eyes, and sharp white teeth.
“My, how handsome you look in that new kimono,” purred the fair maid.
“I was just taking a break from my official duties,” boasted the samurai.
“Ah,” said the fair maid, “Not only are you very handsome, but you’re also official. My father can use a man like yourself. My father is the Lord of Nagoya. Come with me. Show him your worth.” The samurai bowed thrice, raced back to his poor house, where his wife waited, and roared, “Draw me a bath, and help me look my best. I now have an important position with the Lord of Nagoya. I am to leave immediately.”
His good wife was heartbroken. Nagoya is far from Kyoto. But she hid her tears in her threadbare sleeves and did as he asked.
When the samurai was dressed, he looked at her and said, “I’m not coming back till your hair grows out. You look like a boy!” And he was gone, just like that.
The samurai soon became a high official with the Lord of Nagoya, and the maid of Nagoya persuaded him to marry her. Now, a man cannot have two wives, so he sent a messenger to Kyoto, telling his good wife he had divorced her. The date was the 10th day of the ninth moon.
He married the maid, but wealth does not make one rich. His new wife proved to have a bad temper. She was quick to anger—quick to flash those sharp white teeth. She cared neither for his happiness nor his peace of mind. She cared only about new jeweled hair ornaments, sweet rice cakes, and “Come to bed now, my little official.” And every night she hissed, “Show me your worth.” The samurai was not happy.
Months passed, years passed. The samurai’s new wife had long since lost the glow of youth—deep lines of boredom and disdain were etched into her face. These she hid with a thick white powder. Her lips were kept red only by a paint they call beni. Her body was plump with rice cakes. The only thing that remained of her former beauty was her sharp white teeth. “Show me your worth!” The samurai was miserable.
One night as he lay in his bed unable to sleep, he heard Zu ka, zu ka, zu ka. Was it a servant passing in the night? Suddenly, as though with the wave of a great tsunami, he was overcome with yearning for his good wife. He remembered her kind, gentle ways. Then he remembered the kimono. Made of her own hair. Emblazoned with a crest written in her blood!
The samurai searched for that kimono. Finally, in a room filled with things long since forgotten, he found the kimono—blue-black as the night, shining as the stars, and soft as a cloud. As if in a dream, he heard her say, “This is for you, my love, because the greatest power in all the world is that of a good heart.”
The samurai decided then and there to go back to his good wife. He marched into his second wife’s chambers and divorced her on the spot.
“You married me for my money,” she cried, “and now that you have it and I’m old and ugly, you leave me.”
“Save your mouth for rice cakes,” he said. And he was gone, just like that.
Clad only in the blue-black kimono and riding his fastest stallion, the samurai raced back to Kyoto. The journey was hard. The road had changed. He was no longer a young man. Twenty years had passed since he’d last been that way. He reached Kyoto at nightfall.
The moonlight made everything visible. Following the crooked streets, he came to the little alley where he had once lived. He found the house quite easily, but it had a different look. It was not the poor but tidy house he remembered. Tall weeds were growing on the roof. The date was the 10th day of the of the ninth moon.
He knocked on the front door. When no one answered, he slid it open and stepped inside. The front room was empty….matless. A chilly wind blew through the holes in the floor. The moon shone through tears in the paper walls. The house looked completely abandoned. Still the samurai was determined to search each and every room. Finally, he came to the little room that had been his wife’s favorite resting place. Noticing a glow within, he approached the door.
Sliding open the paper door, he saw her there. She had not changed in 20 years! Her skin was clear and fair, her eyes soft and brown, and her hair had grown back again—blue-black as the night, shining as the stars, and soft as a cloud.
She looked at him, saying only, “My love, how glad I am to have you back, if only for a moment.”
“Only for a moment?” sobbed the samurai. “For all eternity. I am a rich man now. Tomorrow I send for my servants and all my money. You’ll never have to suffer again.”
She looked at him and smiled. That night in what once had been their bridal chamber, they lay down to rest. Reaching out over 20 years, their bodies joined as one.
When the samurai awoke, sunlight was streaming through the tears in the paper walls. But he found to his amazement that he was not lying on a soft bed but on a moldy, rotten floor. Was it a dream? no. There she lay. She was sleeping. He bent to kiss that dear cheek…
But the sleeper had no face. Beside him lay the corpse of a woman, a corpse so decayed that little remained but bones crawling with insects, and long black tangled hair. Screaming and screaming, the samurai ran into the street, bumping into an old man. “What’s wrong?” asked the old man. Unable to speak, the samurai pointed to the house.
“But no one lives there,” said the old man. That house belonged to the wife of a samurai who left her to marry another. Heart-broken, she grew sick. She died on the 10th day of the ninth moon…20 years ago.”
Brenda Wong Aoki’s unique storytelling presentations blend song, dance, and drama. A student of Japanese classical theater since 1979, she is well-known for her ghost and demon stories. Aoki lives in San Francisco.
http://www.brendawongaoki.com/
