Stuart Walker - More Portmanteau Plays

She passes through the soft blue curtains, but unless you are willing to follow her, turn back now. There are only play-things here.

O-Sode-San, an old woman

O-Katsu-San

Obaa-San

The Gaki of Kokoru, an eater of unrest

Riki, a poet

Aoyagi

[ Before the House of Obaa-San. At the right back is a weeping willow tree, at the left the simple little house of Obaa-San.

[ O-Sode-San and O-Katsu-San enter.

Oi!… Oi!… Obaa-San!

Obaa-San!… Grandmother!

She is not there.

Poor Obaa-San.

Why do you always pity Obaa-San? Are her clothes not whole? Has she not her full store of rice?

Ay!

Then what more can one want—a full hand, a full belly, and a warm body!

A full heart, perhaps.

What does Obaa-San know of a heart, silly O-Katsu? She has had no husband to die and leave her alone. She has had no child to die and leave her arms empty.

Hai! Hai! She does not know.

She has had no lover to smile upon her and then—pass on.

But Obaa-San is not happy.

Pss-s!

She may be lonely because she has never had any one to love or to love her.

How could one love Obaa-San? She is too hideous for love. She would frighten the children away—and even a drunken lover would laugh in her ugly face. Obaa-San! The grandmother!

O-Sode, might we not be too cruel to her?

If we could not laugh at Obaa-San, how then could we laugh? She has been sent from the dome of the sky for our mirth.

I do not know! I do not know! Sometimes I think I hear tears in her laugh!

Pss-s! That is no laugh. Obaa-San cackles like an old hen.

I think she is unhappy now and then—always, perhaps.

Has she not her weeping willow tree—the grandmother?

Ay. She loves the tree.

The grandmother of the weeping willow tree! It's well for the misshapen, and the childless, and the loveless to have a tree to love.

But, O-Sode, the weeping willow tree can not love her. Perhaps even old Obaa-San longs for love.

Do we not come daily to her to talk to her? And to ask her all about her weeping willow tree?

Oi! Obaa-San.

[ A sigh is heard.

What was that, O-Katsu?

Someone sighed—a deep, hard sigh.

Oi! Obaa-San! Grandmother!

[ The sigh is almost a moan.

It seemed to come from the weeping willow tree.

O-Katsu! Perhaps some evil spirit haunts the tree.

Some hideous Gaki! Like the Gaki of Kokoru—the evil ghost that can feed only on the unrest of humans. Their unhappiness is his food. He has to find misery in order to live, and win his way back once more to humanity. To different men he changes his shape at will, and sometimes is invisible.

Quick, Katsu, let us go to the shrine—and pray—and pray.

Ay. There!

[ They go out. The Gaki appears.

Why did you sigh?

O Gaki of Kokoru! My heart hangs within me like the weight of years on Obaa-San.

Why did you moan?

The tree is growing—and it tears my heart.

I live upon your unrest. Feed me! Feed me!

[ The tree sighs and moans and The Gaki seems transported with joy.

Please! Please! Give me my freedom.

Where then should I feed? Unless I feed on your unhappiness I should cease to live—and I must live.

Someone else, perchance, may suffer in my stead.

I care not where or how I feed. I am in the sixth hell, and if I die in this shape I must remain in this hell through all the eternities. One like me must feed his misery by making others miserable. I can not rise through the other five hells to human life unless I have human misery for my food.

Oh, can't you feed on joy—on happiness, on faith?

Faith? Yes, perhaps—but only on perfect faith. If I found perfect faith—ah, then—I dare not dream.—There is no faith.

Do not make me suffer more. Let me enjoy the loveliness of things.

Would you have someone else suffer in your stead?

Someone else—someone else—

Ay—old Obaa-San—she whom they call the grandmother.

[ The Tree moans.

She will suffer in your stead.

No! No! She loves me! She of all the world loves me! No—not she!

It shall be she!

I shall not leave!

You give me better food than I have ever known. You wait! You wait!

Here comes Obaa-San! Do not let her suffer for me!

You shall be free—as free as anyone can be—when I have made the misery of Obaa-San complete.

She has never fully known her misery. Her heart is like an iron-bound chest long-locked, with the key lost.

We shall find the key! We shall find the key!

I shall warn her.

Try!

Alas! I can not make her hear! I can not tell her anything.

She can not understand you! She can not see me unless I wish! Earth people never see or hear!

Hai! Hai! Hai!

[ Obaa-San enters. She is old, very, very old, and withered and misshapen. There is only laughter in your heart when you look at Obaa-San unless you see her eyes. Then —

My tree! My little tree! Why do you sigh?

Hai! Hai! Hai!

Sometimes I think I pity you. Yes, dear tree!

Hai! Hai! Hai!

Now I am a traveller. She sees me pleasantly.—Grandmother!

Ay, sir!