A Weighty Exercise in Mortal Sympathy
After compiling some archival sources in Kyoto, I found myself traveling eastward to Gotemba, for the purposes of following up on a series of ogre sightings. Having traveled directly by train, I was somewhat impeded by the bus routes leading into the city proper. I had just missed the most recent shuttle, and had no alternative but to sit and wait on a coarse, yet aesthetically pleasing stone bench in the immediate vicinity. Thankfully, springtime in Japan was a few days off, and already the atmosphere was refreshingly serene. In time, I lost myself to the sight and smell of the sakura blossoms, until a subtle noise returned me to reality. I then noticed a slender woman sitting off to my right, with what seemed to be an infant held in her arms.
The child, from what I could tell, was resting peaceful in the woman's embrace, without a single care in the world. Their guardian, in contrast, struck me as intensely disheveled, both in terms of appearance and emotional composition. The woman, who I assumed was the child's mother, wore a rather tattered getup, business casual by my estimation. The individual articles of clothing seemed to be flayed in certain areas, or stained in others. Likewise, the nameless woman's hair was rather unkempt, as if had been tossed about by the weather. That said, her most striking feature was her face.
Sallow cheeks, wrinkles born of stress, and an occasionally blinking set of luminous, distant eyes. These features were not simply overlooking, and just as my humble observation turned into a stare, the woman abruptly turned to look back at me. She smiled at me, and I presented a small, polite nod in response. The woman then scooted a little closer, and softly inquired as to what brought to the Shizuoka prefecture.
I had barely mentioned that I was here on business, when she suddenly extended her arms, and by association, the child out to me. The mysterious mother then apologized for any selfishness, and asked if I could watch her young ward for but a moment, claiming she needed to indulge a brief errand. Not wanting to appear rude or unaccommodating to such a visible flustered person, I consented after a brief moment of introspection. With a single tear streaming down her face, the woman thanked me in earnest, and placed the child into my hands. That instant, my arms buckled with tremendous force, as if I had just received a sack of bricks.
Special Features and History
Of the many restless spirits of Japan, few can claim to be more sorrowful, or more deserving of sympathy than the Ubume. These female ghouls come into being by having died in childbirth, or via the loss of both mother and child to causes natural and otherwise. Historically speaking, legends tell of a ritual sacrifice of a pregnant woman during the construction of a bridge or important structure, leading to a traditional proliferation of such spirits. Though our modern age has seen significant leaps in medicine, as well as the good sense to outlaw such atrocities, fatalities of this sort still persist as issues of our time, and thus, so too do these specters.
When one encounters an Ubume, the somber yurei is guaranteed to ask you to safeguard, and or temporarily chaperone their child. As soon as one agrees to this favor and takes the infant in question, the Ubume will disappear, and return to the unseen realm, content that their offspring will be cared for in their absence. Unfortunately, the altruistic victim of this hand-off will find the infant growing heavier and heavier in their grasp, until the child is revealed to be a statue of a prominent Buddha, or a large, cumbersome bolder. Needless to say, from the 12th century onward, this optical burden has baffled and battered a sizable number of victims.
Closing Remarks and Parting Advice
Stunned by the athletic assertion that had been thrust upon me, I looked about for the child's parent, only to find she had vanished from view. Concerned, I called out several times, anxious over the unpredictably of my arm strength, and general concern for the child's immediate, and future well-being. Forcefully marching about the station, my search persisted for an hour, all the while, the serene infant breathed softly in my arms, and in moments of weakness I was galvanized by its charming, wholesome demeanor.
After circling the building several times, I reached the conclusion that the missing mother was long since gone, and that my only recourse was to bring the abandoned child to the nearest police box. So began my laborious journey, up and down the busied streets, searching desperately for the nearest legal authority. All the while, my shoulders shuddered and my back cracked as the seemingly innocent child continued to weigh me down.
Another hour passed, and, feeling as if my limbs would pop from their sockets at any moment, I endeavored to rest for a moment, and regain what little stamina I could. Raggedly, I scanned the sidewalk for a suitable perch, and found a pristine wooden bench to satisfy my weary form. With great satisfaction, I took a seat, and set the child down in my lap. For a moment, the tiny mass seemed to stir, and in the blink of an eye, a stone facsimile of the Buddha appeared in its place. This artifice, from what I recall, was at least five feet in length, and its unexpected materialization quickly rent the bench asunder.
Uncomfortably, I sat up amidst the fine masonry and a slew of broken boards. Putting two and two together, I realized who, or rather what I had been dealing with, and took to righting the overturned statue. While I was unable to repair the bench as it had been before, I likewise took to stacking the pieces up neatly, and lit a some of incense at the scene. In the end, Ubume, for whatever faults her odd gesture may generate, is not nearly so wicked as so many other ghosts that stalk the earth. Ultimately, I find this spirit to be a C-Class Threat: problematic at times, but far from harmful or malevolent. Until next time, I encourage you, dear readers, to honor the parents in your life, and show compassion towards those less fortunate.
Sincerely yours,
C.V. Hastings
______________
No comments:
Post a Comment