JIKININKI

JIKININKI

Once, when Musō Kokushi, a priest of the Zen sect, was journeying alone

through the province of Mino (1), he lost his way in a

mountain-district where there was nobody to direct him. For a long time

he wandered about helplessly; and he was beginning to despair of

finding shelter for the night, when he perceived, on the top of a hill

lighted by the last rays of the sun, one of those little hermitages,

called _anjitsu_, which are built for solitary priests. It seemed to be

in ruinous condition; but he hastened to it eagerly, and found that it

was inhabited by an aged priest, from whom he begged the favor of a

night’s lodging. This the old man harshly refused; but he directed Musō

to a certain hamlet, in the valley adjoining where lodging and food

could be obtained.

Musō found his way to the hamlet, which consisted of less than a dozen

farm-cottages; and he was kindly received at the dwelling of the

headman. Forty or fifty persons were assembled in the principal

apartment, at the moment of Musō’s arrival; but he was shown into a

small separate room, where he was promptly supplied with food and

bedding. Being very tired, he lay down to rest at an early hour; but a

little before midnight he was roused from sleep by a sound of loud

weeping in the next apartment. Presently the sliding-screens were

gently pushed apart; and a young man, carrying a lighted lantern,

entered the room, respectfully saluted him, and said:—

“Reverend Sir, it is my painful duty to tell you that I am now the

responsible head of this house. Yesterday I was only the eldest son.

But when you came here, tired as you were, we did not wish that you

should feel embarrassed in any way: therefore we did not tell you that

father had died only a few hours before. The people whom you saw in the

next room are the inhabitants of this village: they all assembled here

to pay their last respects to the dead; and now they are going to

another village, about three miles off,—for by our custom, no one of us

may remain in this village during the night after a death has taken

place. We make the proper offerings and prayers;—then we go away,

leaving the corpse alone. Strange things always happen in the house

where a corpse has thus been left: so we think that it will be better

for you to come away with us. We can find you good lodging in the other

village. But perhaps, as you are a priest, you have no fear of demons

or evil spirits; and, if you are not afraid of being left alone with

the body, you will be very welcome to the use of this poor house.

However, I must tell you that nobody, except a priest, would dare to

remain here tonight.”

Musō made answer:—

“For your kind intention and your generous hospitality, I am deeply

grateful. But I am sorry that you did not tell me of your father’s

death when I came;—for, though I was a little tired, I certainly was

not so tired that I should have found difficulty in doing my duty as a

priest. Had you told me, I could have performed the service before your

departure. As it is, I shall perform the service after you have gone

away; and I shall stay by the body until morning. I do not know what

you mean by your words about the danger of staying here alone; but I am

not afraid of ghosts or demons: therefore please to feel no anxiety on

my account.”

The young man appeared to be rejoiced by these assurances, and

expressed his gratitude in fitting words. Then the other members of the

family, and the folk assembled in the adjoining room, having been told

of the priest’s kind promises, came to thank him,—after which the

master of the house said:—

“Now, reverend Sir, much as we regret to leave you alone, we must bid

you farewell. By the rule of our village, none of us can stay here

after midnight. We beg, kind Sir, that you will take every care of your

honorable body, while we are unable to attend upon you. And if you

happen to hear or see anything strange during our absence, please tell

us of the matter when we return in the morning.”

All then left the house, except the priest, who went to the room where

the dead body was lying. The usual offerings had been set before the

corpse; and a small Buddhist lamp—_tōmyō_—was burning. The priest

recited the service, and performed the funeral ceremonies,—after which

he entered into meditation. So meditating he remained through several

silent hours; and there was no sound in the deserted village. But, when

the hush of the night was at its deepest, there noiselessly entered a

Shape, vague and vast; and in the same moment Musō found himself

without power to move or speak. He saw that Shape lift the corpse, as

with hands, devour it, more quickly than a cat devours a rat,—beginning

at the head, and eating everything: the hair and the bones and even the

shroud. And the monstrous Thing, having thus consumed the body, turned

to the offerings, and ate them also. Then it went away, as mysteriously

as it had come.

When the villagers returned next morning, they found the priest

awaiting them at the door of the headman’s dwelling. All in turn

saluted him; and when they had entered, and looked about the room, no

one expressed any surprise at the disappearance of the dead body and

the offerings. But the master of the house said to Musō:—

“Reverent Sir, you have probably seen unpleasant things during the

night: all of us were anxious about you. But now we are very happy to

find you alive and unharmed. Gladly we would have stayed with you, if

it had been possible. But the law of our village, as I told you last

evening, obliges us to quit our houses after a death has taken place,

and to leave the corpse alone. Whenever this law has been broken,

heretofore, some great misfortune has followed. Whenever it is obeyed,

we find that the corpse and the offerings disappear during our absence.

Perhaps you have seen the cause.”

Then Musō told of the dim and awful Shape that had entered the

death-chamber to devour the body and the offerings. No person seemed to

be surprised by his narration; and the master of the house observed:—

“What you have told us, reverend Sir, agrees with what has been said

about this matter from ancient time.”

Musō then inquired:—

“Does not the priest on the hill sometimes perform the funeral service

for your dead?”

“What priest?” the young man asked.

“The priest who yesterday evening directed me to this village,”

answered Musō. “I called at his _anjitsu_ on the hill yonder. He

refused me lodging, but told me the way here.”

The listeners looked at each other, as in astonishment; and, after a

moment of silence, the master of the house said:—

“Reverend Sir, there is no priest and there is no _anjitsu_ on the

hill. For the time of many generations there has not been any

resident-priest in this neighborhood.”

Musō said nothing more on the subject; for it was evident that his kind

hosts supposed him to have been deluded by some goblin. But after

having bidden them farewell, and obtained all necessary information as

to his road, he determined to look again for the hermitage on the hill,

and so to ascertain whether he had really been deceived. He found the

_anjitsu_ without any difficulty; and, this time, its aged occupant

invited him to enter. When he had done so, the hermit humbly bowed down

before him, exclaiming:—“Ah! I am ashamed!—I am very much ashamed!—I am

exceedingly ashamed!”

“You need not be ashamed for having refused me shelter,” said Musō.

“You directed me to the village yonder, where I was very kindly

treated; and I thank you for that favor.”

“I can give no man shelter,” the recluse made answer;—“and it is not

for the refusal that I am ashamed. I am ashamed only that you should

have seen me in my real shape,—for it was I who devoured the corpse and

the offerings last night before your eyes... Know, reverend Sir, that I

am a _jikininki_,[1]—an eater of human flesh. Have pity upon me, and

suffer me to confess the secret fault by which I became reduced to this

condition.

“A long, long time ago, I was a priest in this desolate region. There

was no other priest for many leagues around. So, in that time, the

bodies of the mountain-folk who died used to be brought here,—sometimes

from great distances,—in order that I might repeat over them the holy

service. But I repeated the service and performed the rites only as a

matter of business;—I thought only of the food and the clothes that my

sacred profession enabled me to gain. And because of this selfish

impiety I was reborn, immediately after my death, into the state of a

_jikininki_. Since then I have been obliged to feed upon the corpses of

the people who die in this district: every one of them I must devour in

the way that you saw last night... Now, reverend Sir, let me beseech

you to perform a Ségaki-service[2] for me: help me by your prayers, I

entreat you, so that I may be soon able to escape from this horrible

state of existence”...

No sooner had the hermit uttered this petition than he disappeared; and

the hermitage also disappeared at the same instant. And Musō Kokushi

found himself kneeling alone in the high grass, beside an ancient and

moss-grown tomb of the form called _go-rin-ishi_,[3] which seemed to be

the tomb of a priest.