Kumo-harai – much to his parents’ shame – always fled their requests.
He was eventually taken to the local soothsayer who deemed him one of those poor souls who were bound to loneliness their entire lives. He would need more than he would ever give, she explained. And over time this would consume all of the family’s fortune and luck. She suggested he be sent away, that the lessons he needed to learn were under some other roof. His parents agreed. It was only the monks who were able to find the work he could do and the quiet that he desired.
“Kumo-harai.”
It was then he saw in the thin blue dawn light a tall handsome man with his sedge sandogasa hat thrown back and his long hair loose around shoulders, his hands open and empty by his sides. It was Jin. Kumo-harai felt an immediate rush of affection well and then crash into clammy terror. The mist shifted, the vision faded and Kumo-harai collapsed to the ground and wept until the head abbot found him half the day later.
•••
The head abbot was a serious man with small fox-like eyes that seemed to be sunk too deep into his face. His nose was the shape of a sticky rice ball, his mouth the colour of an earthworm and perpetually downturned. When he smiled – which wasn’t often – he showed rotten teeth. Still, he was a man of great wisdom and patience, who many of the townspeople came to for consolation and advice. Do not be deceived by appearances was one of his more frequent sermons.
Kumo-harai buried his face in the abbot’s old robes, scratching his cheek on the rough-edged holes burned into the fabric by the spitting fire of the daily purification ceremony. He was embarrassed by his emotions and his lack of control, but he couldn’t stop sobbing. The abbot was a magnanimous man and didn’t ridicule him, he merely held Kumo-harai close to his chest and waited for an explanation.
When he was able, Kumo-harai described what he’d seen and heard. The abbot nodded but said nothing.
Later that day a pair of travelling monks arrived. They were given a meal and a blessing and sent right back out to see if they could learn something to put their spider sweeper’s fears to rest.
•••
The next day the vision returned. It strode across the graveyard and disappeared near the thick-walled storehouse where the monks kept their pickled vegetables and rice. Kumo-harai cried out, disturbing the morning’s meditation, but by the time the abbot arrived the ghost had vanished. Kumo-harai insisted on being taken to the soothsayer. Maybe she’d have an answer.
The abbot steadfastly refused, stating that she was a charlatan preying on people’s fears. But after the third day when the apparition returned again with the morning mist and marched across the yard and into the storehouse, Kumo-harai abandoned his work and went alone to the woman who seemed to know truth much more than the monks.
“Your relationship…” she started.
“We’re friends. We became friends when he visited the temple one month ago.”
“Friends,” she repeated, rattling a bamboo cup full of long sticks.
“It was like I’d met him before. I would say I know him better than I know any of my brothers or sisters.” Kumo-harai paused. “And he knows me.”
“This is evidenced by his visits,” the woman said. “Sometimes strong emotions can cause a person’s spirit to leave their body. Emotions of hate, jealousy…” The woman squinted at the fidgeting young man. “Love,” she added slowly, as if judging his reaction.
“So it’s not a ghost I’m seeing?” Kumo-harai asked. “Just his spirit missing me?”
“You say the vision calls out to you and walks to the storehouse?”
“Yes.”
“Why the storehouse?” She gave the sticks one more shake and then scattered them across the floor.
•••
Kumo-harai was rinsing off his broom in the river when the travelling mendicant first arrived. He was darkly tanned, lean and long-muscled. And filthy. Kumo-harai
He was eventually taken to the local soothsayer who deemed him one of those poor souls who were bound to loneliness their entire lives. He would need more than he would ever give, she explained. And over time this would consume all of the family’s fortune and luck. She suggested he be sent away, that the lessons he needed to learn were under some other roof. His parents agreed. It was only the monks who were able to find the work he could do and the quiet that he desired.
“Kumo-harai.”
It was then he saw in the thin blue dawn light a tall handsome man with his sedge sandogasa hat thrown back and his long hair loose around shoulders, his hands open and empty by his sides. It was Jin. Kumo-harai felt an immediate rush of affection well and then crash into clammy terror. The mist shifted, the vision faded and Kumo-harai collapsed to the ground and wept until the head abbot found him half the day later.
•••
The head abbot was a serious man with small fox-like eyes that seemed to be sunk too deep into his face. His nose was the shape of a sticky rice ball, his mouth the colour of an earthworm and perpetually downturned. When he smiled – which wasn’t often – he showed rotten teeth. Still, he was a man of great wisdom and patience, who many of the townspeople came to for consolation and advice. Do not be deceived by appearances was one of his more frequent sermons.
Kumo-harai buried his face in the abbot’s old robes, scratching his cheek on the rough-edged holes burned into the fabric by the spitting fire of the daily purification ceremony. He was embarrassed by his emotions and his lack of control, but he couldn’t stop sobbing. The abbot was a magnanimous man and didn’t ridicule him, he merely held Kumo-harai close to his chest and waited for an explanation.
When he was able, Kumo-harai described what he’d seen and heard. The abbot nodded but said nothing.
Later that day a pair of travelling monks arrived. They were given a meal and a blessing and sent right back out to see if they could learn something to put their spider sweeper’s fears to rest.
•••
The next day the vision returned. It strode across the graveyard and disappeared near the thick-walled storehouse where the monks kept their pickled vegetables and rice. Kumo-harai cried out, disturbing the morning’s meditation, but by the time the abbot arrived the ghost had vanished. Kumo-harai insisted on being taken to the soothsayer. Maybe she’d have an answer.
The abbot steadfastly refused, stating that she was a charlatan preying on people’s fears. But after the third day when the apparition returned again with the morning mist and marched across the yard and into the storehouse, Kumo-harai abandoned his work and went alone to the woman who seemed to know truth much more than the monks.
“Your relationship…” she started.
“We’re friends. We became friends when he visited the temple one month ago.”
“Friends,” she repeated, rattling a bamboo cup full of long sticks.
“It was like I’d met him before. I would say I know him better than I know any of my brothers or sisters.” Kumo-harai paused. “And he knows me.”
“This is evidenced by his visits,” the woman said. “Sometimes strong emotions can cause a person’s spirit to leave their body. Emotions of hate, jealousy…” The woman squinted at the fidgeting young man. “Love,” she added slowly, as if judging his reaction.
“So it’s not a ghost I’m seeing?” Kumo-harai asked. “Just his spirit missing me?”
“You say the vision calls out to you and walks to the storehouse?”
“Yes.”
“Why the storehouse?” She gave the sticks one more shake and then scattered them across the floor.
•••
Kumo-harai was rinsing off his broom in the river when the travelling mendicant first arrived. He was darkly tanned, lean and long-muscled. And filthy. Kumo-harai
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