Chapter 59: Tōkigan (Part 3)
“That day,” Ōgami continued, his voice taking on the quiet, measured cadence of an ancient storyteller, his audience now completely, and silently, captivated, “Tōkigan, as was now his custom, set out after a meager breakfast, venturing deep into the uninhabited, and some said, haunted parts of the island. He moved through the dense, silent jungle, one hand never far from the knife at his belt, ever watchful for wild beasts, his eyes scanning the unfamiliar terrain for any sign of the elusive god’s dwelling.”
“Near noon, his strength beginning to wane, Tōkigan came across a small, clear stream, its water cool and inviting. He stopped by its banks to rest, to drink. And there, lulled by the gentle, hypnotic murmur of the stream and the oppressive, humid heat of the day, he unknowingly, and with a profound sense of peace he had not felt in years, fell asleep.”
“He slept more soundly, more deeply than he had in a very long time. It was not until dusk, when the sky was beginning to bleed from a brilliant, fiery orange to a deep, bruised purple, that Tōkigan finally, slowly, awoke.”
“And he saw him. The god he had been so desperately, so obsessively, searching for. Standing right there, before him, as if he had been waiting for him all along.”
Ōgami paused here, a dramatic flair, expecting a barrage of questions from the group. But to his surprise, they all just stared at him, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and profound, almost reverent fascination. No one spoke.
And so, he continued. “Tōkigan immediately fell to his knees, bowing his head to the ground, and, his voice trembling with a mixture of awe and desperation, explained the reason for his long, perilous journey. He begged the god to teach him the secret, divine techniques for creating the highest-grade, most life-like dolls.”
“The god, seeing Tōkigan’s sincere desire to learn, and perhaps sensing the strange, dark potential that lay within him, agreed to his request. He began to instruct Tōkigan in the secret, and some say, forbidden art of making the highest-grade dolls. And together, master and apprentice, they began to create the first one.”
“For the next several days, Tōkigan would leave his small, humble house early each morning, the large, mysterious wooden box strapped to his back, and follow the god into the deepest, most hidden parts of the island, learning, practicing, creating.”
“Finally, after many long days of tireless work, the first doll was complete.”
“And Tōkigan, the failed, impoverished doll maker, had learned the techniques that, until now, only the god had possessed.”
“Before they parted ways, the god spoke to Tōkigan, his voice like the rustle of ancient, dry leaves. ‘The technique for creating the highest-grade dolls,’ he said, ‘it comes with three sacred and inviolable taboos that you must remember. If you fail to abide by them, disaster, swift and terrible, will surely befall you.’”
“Tōkigan, his mind already consumed with giddy, intoxicating dreams of the fame and fortune his newfound skills would bring him, was eager to return to his wife and share his joy. But out of respect for the god’s majestic and slightly terrifying authority, he could only listen impatiently, his mind only half-present, as the god spoke.”
“And then, the god began to explain the three taboos in detail.”
“‘The total number of lives in the world is constant, unchanging. A perfect, highest-grade doll, it, too, possesses a life, a soul. Therefore, to create such a doll is to disrupt the sacred, cosmic balance of the total number of lives.’”
“‘Thus, the first taboo is this: for every highest-grade doll you create, you must prepare a living sacrifice, to rebalance the fluctuation in the total number of souls.’”
“‘A doll that possesses a life of its own will mistakenly and tragically believe that it is the same as an ordinary human being. If you ever allow it to see the truth of its own nature, it will take its revenge on you, its creator, in the most cruel and brutal fashion imaginable.’”
“‘Therefore, the second taboo is this: a mirror is a sacred object, a tool that reflects the undeniable truth of the world. You must absolutely, under any circumstances, never allow the doll to look in a mirror.’”
“‘A doll that is a failure in its creation, an imperfect vessel, will emit a powerful, malevolent resentment, like that of an unborn, un-loved infant. If it is left unattended, if it is not properly dealt with, it will become something far more terrifying, far more dangerous, than a common vengeful spirit.’”
“‘Therefore, the third, and final, taboo is this: a failed doll must be immediately and completely consumed by fire, to release the tormented spirit that has been sealed within.’”
“Tōkigan, his mind still filled with glorious, intoxicating visions of himself achieving fame and fortune with his new, god-like skills, absentmindedly assured the deity that he had memorized all the taboos and would, of course, strictly abide by them.”
“As a final, parting warning, the god told him that the doll they had created together, their first masterpiece, had been made without a corresponding sacrifice. He instructed Tōkigan to make amends for this oversight immediately upon his return, to avoid violating the most sacred of the taboos.”
After recounting this part of the story, Ōgami Yōsuke let out a long, slow breath. “Honestly, this story is quite long, much longer than most of the legends I’ve come across. It took me quite a while to memorize all the details.”
A story like this, if one were merely a casual, thrill-seeking listener, one could just listen to the general, spooky outline. But if one wanted to truly explore and discuss it, to deconstruct its meaning, then every detail, every nuance, was of the utmost importance.
Junko rested her chin on her hand, first pursing her lips, then said, “Let me guess. All three of those taboos are going to be spectacularly broken later on, right? Stories with this kind of setup, they always go that way. It’s a little… cliché, don’t you think?”
Ōgami Yōsuke frowned at her flippant comment. “Well, yes, there are many folktales with similar plot structures, like the well-known stories of the Yuki-onna or the Grateful Crane. But those stories also have a certain… educational value, teaching the listener about important moral concepts like honesty and the importance of keeping one’s promises.”
The story of the Yuki-onna, or Snow Woman, is a classic piece of Japanese folklore, known throughout the country. The general story is that a father and son, both humble woodcutters, are caught in a violent blizzard while up in the mountains and are forced to take shelter in a small, abandoned cabin. In the middle of the night, the beautiful but deadly Yuki-onna appears and, with her icy breath, freezes the old woodcutter to death. Then, seeing the young woodcutter’s handsome appearance, she takes pity on him, but warns him that he must never, ever, speak of what happened that night. Several years later, a beautiful, mysterious woman comes to the young woodcutter’s home and asks for shelter. They eventually fall in love, marry, and have children. One day, the woodcutter, perhaps grown complacent, can no longer hold his tongue and tells his wife about his terrifying encounter with the Yuki-onna all those years ago. Upon hearing this, his wife immediately transforms into the Yuki-onna from that fateful night. She warns him that, for the sake of their children, she will spare his life one more time, and then she vanishes into the winter wind, never to be seen again.
At this point, Takada Shōji, who had been listening with his arms crossed, a look of deep concentration on his face, suddenly asked, “But the story doesn’t mention how Tōkigan supported himself, does it? This guy was completely broke, right? If he wasn’t working, how did he and his wife eat?”
Before Ōgami Yōsuke could answer, Kana, ever practical, interjected, “Since it’s an island, there must be fish, right? It seems like he could have survived by fishing. And if there was suitable, arable land on the island, he could have farmed too, couldn’t he?”
“Whether he fished or farmed, the story doesn’t specify. But if one were to guess, it would have to be one of those two,” Ōgami Yōsuke said, scratching his head.
Kana then said, “But I am a bit curious. What did that god look like? Why was Tōkigan able to immediately recognize him as a god, and as the specific god he was so desperately looking for, the moment he saw him?”
Junko, eager to show off her own knowledge, offered an explanation. “Didn’t it mention earlier that other master doll makers had visited this god? So, Tōkigan probably got a detailed description of the god’s appearance from them before he set out on his journey.”
“Eh—then those master doll makers must have been really, really kind-hearted, practically handing out trade secrets and creating more competition for themselves.” It was clear from her tone that Kana didn’t buy that explanation for a second. “Is this god still worshipped on Mie Island today? What does its statue look like, and what’s the name of its shrine?”
Ōgami Yōsuke said, “This god is indeed still worshipped on Mie Island, yes. But a statue, as you know, doesn’t necessarily represent a god’s true, original appearance. And the establishment of the shrine is mentioned later in the story.”
Takada Shōji also chimed in with a scoff. “Exactly. What kind of unrealistic things are you thinking, Kana? There’s no way gods actually, physically exist in the world. So, the so-called appearance of a god is, of course, just a fabrication, a metaphor. It’s meaningless, right, Senpai?”
Yomikawa Tsuko, who had been planning on just listening, letting the others chase their own tails, was suddenly, and rather annoyingly put on the spot. She had no choice but to respond, feigning a deep, scholarly interest. “In the first taboo,” she began, her voice cold and analytical, “the idea that the total number of lives in the world is constant… that seems to be a concept derived from the Buddhist principle of the six realms of reincarnation, does it not? Had Buddhism already been introduced to Japan when this story supposedly took place?”
Ōgami Yōsuke scratched his head, a look of genuine admiration in his eyes at her sharp, insightful question. “While that’s certainly a possibility, the idea of reincarnation is not, in fact, unique to Buddhism. Myths and legends from all over the world have similar concepts of soul transmigration. And we can’t definitively say the story took place after the Asuka period based on that one sentence, because we can’t be sure if that was the original wording of the story. It’s very possible that after Buddhism was introduced to Japan, the ancient, oral version of the story was… contaminated… with some Buddhist concepts, and gradually evolved into the version we have today.”
“In any case,” he concluded, a note of finality in his voice, “trying to pinpoint the exact time period in which the story took place is… likely a meaningless and ultimately futile exercise.”
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