As far as he can see, Oni—or at least these Oni—show no signs of possessing the tortured, twisted minds of homicidal maniacs or bloodthirsty vampires. Their faces are red and frighteningly grotesque, to be sure, but they seem to him cheerful, easygoing fellows for all that. And, fortunately, this judgment of his turns out to be more or less on the mark. These are of an exceedingly gentle breed we might almost describe as the hermit Oni monks of Mount Tsurugi, and they have little in common with your average demons from hell. They aren’t carrying those dangerous iron clubs, for starters; that alone should be evidence enough that they have no malice in their hearts. But unlike the Seven Hermit Sages who fled to the Bamboo Grove with knowledge far beyond that of ordinary mortals, these hermit Oni are simpletons.
Someone once explained to me a lame-brained theory to the effect that since the Chinese character “wizard” consists of the elements “person” and “mountain,” anyone who lives in a remote mountainous area deserves to be called a wizard. If we stretch a point and accept this hypothesis, then perhaps these hermit Oni of Mount Tsurugi, however deficient they might be in intellect, are worthy of being called wizards as well. In any case, such a term seems a good deal more appropriate than “ogres” for this particular group of scarlet giants drinking mindlessly in the moonlight.
I have described them as simpletons, and now they are justifying that description by celebrating in ways that display an appalling lack of artistic talent or sensibility—screeching and howling meaninglessly, slapping their knees and roaring with laughter, or rising to their feet and leaping and spinning around and around. One of them even curls into a ball and rolls about, bouncing back and forth from one edge of the circle to the other. Surely such exhibitions constitute proof that phrases like “Ogre-like Genius” and “Oni of the Literary World” make no sense whatsoever. One simply cannot credit the notion that these talentless goofballs are somehow divinely inspired.
Ojii-san too can only shake his head at the pathetic level of Oni dancing skills.
“That is some very bad dancing indeed! Mind if I teach you a few moves?”
Ojii-san loved to dance.
He couldn’t help himself.
He ran into the circle and started dancing.
His wen bounced up and down.
It was fun to watch, and funny too!
Ojii-san is full of liquid courage. And because he also feels a certain bond with these Oni, he’s not the least bit afraid as he springs into the center of the circle and begins performing the traditional Awa festival dance and singing in a fine, clear voice:
Young ones wear Shimada hairdos,
old ones wear their wigs!
Who can see those red, red ribbons
and not lose his mind?
Married ladies, don your hats,
come along and dance, dance!
The Oni are absolutely delighted. They make a cacophony of strange noises—Kya, kya! Keta, keta!—and laugh till tears roll down their cheeks and drool drips from their chins. Encouraged by their reaction, Ojii-san tries another verse.
Once we got beyond the valley
all we saw was rocks!
Once we got past Sasa Mountain,
only bamboo grass, oh!
Really belting out the final lines, he finishes his comical, light-footed dance with a flourish.
The Oni were overjoyed.
“He must dance for us again,
at the next moonlight bash!”
“Let’s keep something valuable of his,
to make sure he comes back!”
So says one of them, and they all put their heads together for a grunt-filled discussion. They seem to come, in their stupidity, to the conclusion that Ojii-san’s bright, shiny wen is a rare treasure, and they decide that if they keep it, he’s sure to return. They’re ignorant, yes, but after living deep in the mountain forest for so long, perhaps they have indeed learned some of the wizardly arts: they pluck the wen clean from Ojii-san’s cheek, leaving not so much as a scar, or any other trace.
Ojii-san is stunned.