The Gate of Rain - I
Introduction and First Part
This novelette was originally part of the essay for a course on Japanese history and it was longer than the paper itself. It is, of course, part of the old genre of taking an already told story and twisting it. The original was from the great Ryūnosuke Akutagawa (芥川 龍之介) whose work name was Chōkōdō Shujin (澄江堂主人). It was taken and combined with another short story by a Japanese director. That director was Akira Kurosawa (黒澤明) and the name of the film was the other short story - Rashōmon (羅生門) that Akutagawa produce very early. The Gate hangs heavy in Kurosawa's tale.
Akutagawa is almost unknown in the West but is celebrated in the East as the “Father of the Short Story,” but is remembered in the obsessive anime culture. While he wrote prolifically, it was with a purpose, to meld the vernacular Japanese spoken tongue with the modern stories from the West. An example of this is “The Nose” which was based on a 13th-century tale by Uji Shūi Monogatari and the Gogol story Нос which is “The Nose” in English. This is a manner similar to Kafka who went much further in The Metamorphosis in having the hero lose his nose. In a sense, I am taking up the same mantle as Ryūnosuke Akutagawa, who was doing his homage to his icons.
Since writing a detailed exposé on the short story and its implications before the story itself has been read is absurd, I will review the reasons after the story; to explain what I am doing in this literary philosophical sense til the end.
The Monk and the Woodcutter
Rain. Rain upon rain. Rain curdled rain.
Not droplets, nor steady drizzle. The tumult that washes out the day; it makes women decide to do the cleaning – and men to find something to repair. But that two or three times in a year, when it decides to unleash a barrage on all the land below and squelch out.
In under the vast kasagi, where the rain accumulated more strongly and dumped down – almost like a garden – there were two men: one a monk covered from head to foot in gamboge - though it was a dirty mustered orange by now - the other a simple woodcutter, clad in brown. They both stared into the droplets, endlessly falling into sheets below the long open gate.
The monk spoke first :
“I do not understand.” It had the wail of a deep pronouncement. It was the weight of age, even though he was young. Perhaps he was doing it as an homage to his master. “Even now I do not understand. How is this even possible?” And he shook his head. If you look closely, you would see him weep. He sat droop shoulders and dejected while the shower doors were down around them.
“If you do not understand, how can I? I just cut wood for my wife and brood of children.” And then they were quiet and squatting down in the cold wet floor. Above them, all above them, the gate poured down the rain like a great tower with huge holes. But said nothing at all. It was cracking, creaking – as if it were going to collapse that minute. One could hear these patterns from the top, accumulating as they did so – until they were streams. But at least they could avoid those. Unlike his companion, the monk was more stoic.
In the out of the downpour, came another man – dressed as a day laborer. Once upon a time, he had plenty of business – but now not so. He waited for an instant to see what the two were talking about.
Instead, the laborer heard a variation on their conundrum – at which point he raised his hand and shook it. “What are you two talking about? And please do not give me a sermon, monk. I have had too many of those.” So he sat down. He was going to find out if there was a tale.
Upturn the whisker of the woodcutter: “We were talking about a dead man.”
“So what of it? With all of the wars and plagues, there are plenty of them.” The laborer pull out a much-abused pear and took a bit out of it.
The woodman piped-up: “There are dead on this large gate. And it was horrible what happened to them.” And then a silence fell upon him. They nodded because there were at least half a dozen of them on the roof of the gate – or more. They had all seen this. None of them were claimed, and, probably, none of them were going to be claimed. This meant that the city would have to do something – but there were few enough silver pieces to do so, at least for a long time. So the official avoids the gate, especially in the torrents.
“Yes, there are wars aplenty, and executions, and the plague. Though that is not what the Masters teach us. It should be contemplative, not combative.”
“Was it a nobleman – or just a commoner like ourselves? If it is the second, perhaps I will agree with you. For us though, we die all the time.” At this, they all sighed – because it was the truth.
“Do you want to tell them or should I?” Asked the monk to the woodman.
“You do it so much better than I.” Replied the woodman, taking his long ax out, and sharpening it.
“Well, you should make up your minds, and then tell me.” Then the laborer got up to find loose firewood and found some not too far at hand.
They waited for him to assemble a small tinder, which the labor hauled out flint and steel – and in a few minutes had a fire, though it rocked back and forth from the wind. But for all of that, it was at least steady.
Then the labor looked at the two of them. “Well, begin. If it is a good story.”
“We should tell you that it was only three days ago.”
“And what happened three days ago? If you're going to tell me a story, you should tell me a story – and not drag it out.” In the distance, there was a crackle of thunder – first the flash, and after a while, there was the noise associated with it. It then got quiet. After you moments the monk began:
“There was a warrior, and his lady – in fine colors, woven with taste. They were going on the road out of town – and I saw them in the glades where the rice patties were thinning, and up ahead there were signs of a great forest. The bamboo had a shadiness to it that reflected on the lady's white. The samurai was scowling.”
It was a glorious morning, where even a monk might enjoy the hazy sunshine. It seemed that there would be nothing to worry about – not a care in the world. Everywhere there were small teams to plant the autumn harvest of rice, and even they look happy. The rice was shaking just a little bit, though I knew that it was nothing – in my mind's eye, the long bushels seemed to be calling for rain – of that gentle style. Off in the distance, there were terraces to harvest even more rice, but they were a bit ragged. It was a bucolic landscape, with the with rice - along the valley - in abundance, but the hills much less so. The green fields waved in the breeze, that would, from time to time, caress the land of the Old Capital.
There were few people on the road – and most of them were going to the field that they were planting – but there was one pair that stood out. Rather, a pair and a donkey. On foot, taking the nose of the donkey, was a samurai – through easily across the line of middle age. And he was thin, showing the where of a man who has his best years behind him. But with all of that, his mustache was erect, and every detail of his fine face told one that he was born and bred to this life and no other. Though he could be said that his clothes were a bit ragged – they still bespoke of the time when he had been in command – waiting for his targets from his master. And it would be a shugo daimyo who would have commanded him in his old days. But not now, now he was alone. And not brought us to the figure on the donkey, which was his lady.
Such a lady she was! With her friend's hat that was long, and draped to disguise her loveliness - and her dress covered over everything, except the shoes. I could not tell you if they were as rich as I love them to be, that is not my place. But I glanced upwards and caught a look on her face. She, like all of her kind, was layered with many roads – though not all the junitoe rank, with its 12-layer style. I, of course, had only seen drawings of this, because I would never belong in the rarefied atmosphere of its beauty. There were the accouterments – especially a wide fan, and a dagger – because even the ladies have two defend themselves from brigands. But the wrappings from the chapeau obscured her except for a moment. She was, obviously, thin and beautiful, much younger than her lord – though it seemed to me she was also reticent and reluctant. It was clear that they were only married for a short time.
I bowed exactly the right amount and tipped my hat – as a form of reverence. But it still struck me how beautiful she was, at least in my imagination. I hurried on, but I remember not hearing a word between them. It must have been in silence that they walked through the rice paddies, away from the old city – to the north to whichever daimyo held him in obeisance. Because there is a war between factions, he probably was trying to find out what he could. And that meant that his lady was dragged along for show.
And that is all I can remember, said the monk.
This had the desired effect on the laborer – though it was slow, he gained his attention in the telling – this sort of opening is common, where the characters are underlined in their particular roles. That he was a warrior, was the point of his being. And she was a reward for his labors for the clan.
Once again the rain came down, and then begin the woodsman's view of the matter. He waited for the rain to die down, which did, and rubbed his hands together near the firewood and then started to tell his heart of the story.
It was two days ago, and I needed to get firewood – with which to sell. It supports enough of a living, but only because I still know a few places where cedar trees grow – where most people will take pine trees and live on the meager coins that they get from them. Because right now the only people who need firewood have some use for it – or they live down by the sea. I knew it is the dry season for firewood and anything else I can find.
The sun was already towards noon, beating down. I had been walking for two hours because the secrets of the old Forest were hidden from even the woodman who trod carelessly. Yes, my father was the same as I am, and also knew it has secrets. Though my face was grim, inside I was happy for knowing the ways that had been gone before me. It was a ritual, and my skin swelled up with pride at the way it maneuvered it. Even though I was hot.
Over the knocked down trees, through the underbrush, carefully avoiding the poisoned berries. I was coming to the place where the pines look impenetrable, for in a glen came an area where the elms and oaks grew if one knew the way. So what is it to be beaten on by the sun, when there is good wood for the cutting down? The birds were merrily calling out their songs, and the insects were buzzing in droves. But what is that to me? Yes, I will admit that I slapped a few away. But it was nothing, insects are part of the life I lead.
But then over a fallen log, I chanced to see something which I would never see in the forest – because it was indeed a forest and not a wood at this point. It was a broad-brim lady's hat. The kind of hat worn not in a forest or wood, but on a roadside or within the reaches of a daimyo's castle. Even I knew that.
That stopped me. In my tracks, how could a ladies hat be there? What was it doing tangled up in the vines? No, I did not touch it – because it was too out of place. I mean, that hat would have been worth everything I carried, but with good is it? I would be found out almost instantaneously when searched – because it was not something easy to hide. So I went along, but this time, eye every inch for more clues as to why a woman's hat would be there. It was suspicious, and I was now on guard.
And sure enough, I found a pair of gloves – of a woman, and about the same size as the hat. I was near the clearing where I intended to harvest firewood, and I thought whatever might have happened to her probably was going to end up there. Because the saplings and underbrush were cleared away, though no one knows by who. Most believe it is not by anything human at all, and I believe that, truly, as well.
Then I was doubly on my guard and was not surprised when a woman's dagger came into view. It was not just a dagger, mind you, but one that was carved in detail. And it was inside of a tree that was partially knocked over, but not completely.
So I stepped into the clearing, where everything was quiet. But a figure stood out of the shadow – but it was not a woman, but a man. Wearing clothes as befits a warrior, with embroidery and patterns which said something about his rank, though I do not know exactly what. Such things do not interest me at all. For a warrior, he was slender, though he had an unusual mustache. He was gaunt in the face but held a sword as befits his rank. It was curved, and I assumed it was made for him. His hands shook in the earth.
He was laid out on the floor of the forest, and it was obvious he had been in a fight. There was a great struggle, and it was open to questioning what had happened. I could see at least two sets of tracks – both men. In an instant, I ran away, and when I got back to the road I finally calmed down enough. I went to the constable and reported everything which I had seen. At which point they took me to the courthouse garden. There I would wait to tell the story.
I talked to the monk in the sunshine and he told me that they were going to bring in a bandit, who had been slinking around the area and doing deadly deeds. They were sure that this would be the same one because he had a straight sword of the kind used in my description. Clearly, they had also questioned the monk, and we then sat and watched the wind blow, and eventually a storm rose. Fortunately, in the courthouse, there was a bench that was covered.
There we met a marshal, who was jovial. And if I may say so rather stout. He recounted how he captured the bandit, apparently, he had become sick and so was easily captured. But I am getting ahead of myself.
At this point, the labor looked out onto the old capital, and just barely saw the courthouse. He had never been inside it himself, and from the outside, it cowled as if it was a kind, more than just jail, a prison. He assumed that the administration was more pleasant – but that it hid several rather nasty surprises in the rooms where men were taken to rot – or be executed. It was only three-tier stories, and nothing like it could be found anywhere on the mainland. There was a foreboding about the place with innumerable steps upwards and pine trees strewn about it.
“What rank and title did the warrior have?”
“They did not tell us.”
The laborer nodded, he knew something about the ways in which the people in charge would not discuss things, because, in their minds, they were secret. But this is another tale. Instead, he asked: “But you two were not to be blamed?”
The monk looked at him with an air of true distaste, so far from his thoughts was it. The woodman looked blankly at him.
“Were there other people on the road?”
“None that they found, the old capital is largely deserted, even the wood is old. Only be martial was summoned.”
“Did they know that the brigand do the deed?”
“When they brought him in, they did. But as he told his story, questions begin to raise themselves.” The woodcutter bowed his head down, but he almost had something to say.
So began the story of a marshal and a notorious brigand and the part in which he said he was involved in this story. Though no one believed it, it was a good story nonetheless.
(Next part later)