Thread by @GodysseyPodcast

In lieu of multiple posts today I'm going to do one on today's theme. When I've mentioned this story before, people have always asked how it ends, and I'm not sure I've ever said, so today, I'm going to tell that tale: 耳なし芳一

A 🧵 #MythologyMonday

In medieval Japan there was a type of performer called a biwa hōshi, lute priests. Traditionally blind, these wandering minstrels kept alive the legend of Heike, tales of the Genpei War (1180-85), a bloody civil war that displaced the Emperor from power.

Hōichi was a biwa hōshi.

No one questioned Hōichi's skill. It was said that passing spirits would stop and weep listening to his retelling of the Tale of the Heike, particularly the Battle of Dan-no-ura, the climactic final battle where the Boy Emperor Antoku was drowned rather than being captured.

Yet despite his skill Hōichi had no mind for finances and stayed at Amidaji Temple, a Buddhist temple whose head monk was Hōichi's closest friend and an esoteric Buddhist. It didn't hurt that Hōichi brought travelers far and wide to Amidaji, and they were content.

One night Hōichi stayed up past dark playing, wanting to get a better feel for the fall of the Boy Emperor. There came a knock at his door, and a voice boomed. "Lute Priest Hōichi! Your audience is requested by my noble lord: you are to come with me at once. Do not delay!"

From the speech of the figure, Hōichi deduced he was dealing with a samurai, the rulers of Japan since the Battle of Dan-no-Ura centuries before. He obeyed gladly, for a noble patron would do well for the temple and Hōichi knew he played better for an audience. He followed close.

Though he could not see it, the hall was grand, yet he had never heard of it before. He was greeted by many a noble courier, many a bureaucrat, many a noblewoman who praised him, having heard legend of his skill. He was introduced to the mysterious noble by his grandmother.

He began his recounting of the Tale, and as the Battle of Dan-no-Ura began, a naval battle, it sounded as if waves were all around them, and with the waves, the shouting of men, the weeping of women, and the crying of a child: each in beat with Hōichi's telling.

As his biwa rang out the last note and his voice faded, the hall was filled with tears, the entire court moved by his performance. The samurai returned to him, and composing himself, spoke: "My lord is deeply moved by your telling. It is as if you were there!"

He led Hōichi home

"My lord is traveling in secret: his enemies cannot know where he is. Tomorrow we request your presence again." And with that, the voice was gone, even before Hōichi could agree.

He did not sleep long, and woke exhausted from what felt like the sleep of the dead.

His friend, the monk, was concerned. Hōichi looked as if he had gained a month's worth of sleeplessness in a night, but he would not say why. Amidaji Temple was well-off in those days, and could afford servants: he asked that week's servants if they had seen anything. Nothing.

Night came, and the monk roused the two servants, a woodcutter and a farmer who planted later in the season. They would understand if they could. That night, the samurai returned, and spoke to Hōichi: "My master requests your presence once more. Come, do not delay!"

The monk knew something was off immediately, the way the light hit the samurai was wrong, and the armor was archaic at best. So, he, the woodcutter, and the farmer all followed blind Hōichi and the mysterious samurai from the Temple....

... to the cemetery at Amidaji.

At the head of the cemetery was a clear space, and it was here the samurai led Hōichi. Voices spoke to him, but all the monk and his servants could see were fireflies.

No, not fireflies: floating spirit lights!

The voice of the grandmother spoke again, commanding Hōichi to retell the entire Heike again. And so he did. And as the Battle of Dan-no-Ura began, sounds surrounded the hidden monk and his companions, as if they were at the battle themselves.

The monk began to piece it together

The samurai, himself a green light, commanded Hōichi to return the next night, and led him home. Once home, Hōichi fell into a deep sleep from which the monk could not rouse his friend: not until morning. When he awoke, Hōichi looked haggard, as if years had passed.

The monk fed his friend. "Hōichi, you look terrible. Where are you going in the night?"

So Hōichi recounted what he thought he was doing: playing the Tale of the Heike for a noble patron, with the promise of patronage for Amidaji. It was the least he could do.

"Hōichi, my dear friend, we followed you last night. You did not go to a noble house: you went to the cemetery! You are playing for the ghosts of the dead, the dead of Dan-no-Ura! Legend of your skill has reached Yomi and they have come seeking you out."

Hōichi did not see what the big deal was.

"Each time you play your biwa and use your voice, you give your all. With mere mortals and the onbake of the woods, that is good and well: but with spirits of this caliber, it is another matter entirely: your soul is at stake, my friend!

The monk told him there was a way to protect him: if the spirits could not find him, they would stop coming. But how, asked Hōichi?

"I shall write the Heart Sutra on every inch of your body. The dead will not be able to see you: you will be safe! But you cannot speak or move."

Hōichi lived a simple life, but he wanted to live that life. He agreed. So, his monk friend painted him, head to foot, with the Sutra, teaching it to him: he latched onto one particular section. "Form is emptiness, emptiness is form."

This he repeated in his mind as night fell.

The commanding voice boomed as it had the two previous evenings. "Lute priest Hōichi! My master commands that I request your presence once more! Do not delay!"

Hōichi did nothing.

"Lute priest Hōichi! Come out!"

Silence was his answer. The samurai grew impatient.

The emerald specter samurai threw the sliding door open to Hōichi's room, and was shocked at what he saw.

In the next room, through the screen, the silent monk, woodcutter, and farmer watched, saying nothing, scarcely moving.

"What is this? Where is Hōichi?"

The samurai searched the room, but could not find anything indicating where Hōichi was: yet he was right there, meditating and trying his best not to move, right in the center of the room.

"This is an outrage! Where is Hōichi, my master has requested him. Wait...."

Just then, the monk realized his mistake.

"These are Hōichi's ears! Here, floating in midair! Someone has kidnapped Hōichi, and left his ears! I must take them back to my master, to show him this grave injustice!"

The monk had not painted the ears!

The samurai tugged at the ears; Hōichi did not dare move, remembering the Heart Sutra in his head as on his body

"Strange, the ears do not come: I shall cut them and they will obey!"

The monk and his companions gasped from the other room. The samurai paused, then drew his blade

With two quick slices, he removed the floating ears, and left.

Hōichi sat still, daring not to move, despite the two ears bleeding profusely, spurting blood with every pounding of his heart, which was ready to leave his body at any moment: he grew faint, and screamed.

After who knows how long had passed, Hōichi awoke.

His friend the monk spoke to him, but he could not hear him as well: he said something about being worried he'd never wake, and Hōichi asked why he couldn't hear.

"Why, you have no ears!"

It had all been true: Hōichi was not earless, though he could still hear, and despite the monk not wanting news of this to get out, the farmer and the woodcutter spread the tale far and wide across Western Japan: soon everyone came to see the Lute Priest, Hōichi the Earless.

Such was his fame that, upon his death, a shrine was placed near Amidaji and indeed, in many places across Japan. The haunting song of Hōichi still echoes through the night, now retold endlessly for the last seven-hundred years.

For English audiences, Lafcadio Hearn's retelling is most famous, but even more famous is the 1965 film Kwaidan, which I drew images from for our dear Lute Priest. I am endlessly fascinated by the tale, and aside from Tamamo-no-Mae, it is probably my favorite.

End thread! Now for some art credits:

1: Kelley McMorris
2: Kevin Kelly
3: Utagawa Sadahide
14: Kelley McMorris
15: Kwaidan
18: Utagawa Kuniyoshi
20: Kwaidan
22: Kwaidan
24: Kwaidan

And playing the part of the samurai was a liberal usage of Toshiro Mifune

I hope you enjoy and I look forward to your posts!