When O-Toyo's husband--a distant cousin, adopted into her family
for love's sake--had been summoned by his lord to the capital,
she did not feel anxious about the future. She felt sad only. It
was the first time since their bridal that they had ever been
separated. But she had her father and mother to keep her company,
and, dearer than either,--though she would never have confessed
it even to herself,--her little son. Besides, she always had
plenty to do. There were many household duties to perform, and
there was much clothing to be woven--both silk and cotton.
Once daily at a fixed hour, she would set for the absent husband,
in his favorite room, little repasts faultlessly served on dainty
lacquered trays,--miniature meals such as are offered to the
ghosts of the ancestors, and to the gods(1). These repasts were
served at the east side of the room, and his kneeling-cushion
placed before them. The reason they were served at the east side,
was because he had gone east. Before removing the food, she
always lifted the cover of the little soup-bowl to see if there
was vapor upon its lacquered inside surface. For it is said that
if there be vapor on the inside of the lid covering food so
offered, the absent beloved is well. But if there be none, he is
dead,--because that is a sign that his soul has returned by
itself to seek nourishment. O-Toyo found the lacquer thickly
beaded with vapor day by day.
The child was her constant delight. He was three years old, and
fond of asking questions to which none but the gods know the real
answers. When he wanted to play, she laid aside her work to play
with him. When he wanted to rest, she told him wonderful stories,
or gave pretty pious answers to his questions about those things
which no man can ever understand. At evening, when the little
lamps had been lighted before the holy tablets and the images,
she taught his lips to shape the words of filial prayer. When he
had been laid to sleep, she brought her work near him, and
watched the still sweetness of his face. Sometimes he would smile
in his dreams; and she knew that Kwannon the divine was playing
shadowy play with him, and she would murmur the Buddhist
invocation to that Maid "who looketh forever down above the sound
of prayer."
Sometimes, in the season of very clear days, she would climb the
mountain of Dakeyama, carrying her little boy on her back. Such a
trip delighted him much, not only because of what his mother
taught him to see, but also of what she taught him to hear. The
sloping way was through groves and woods, and over grassed
slopes, and around queer rocks; and there were flowers with
stories in their hearts, and trees holding tree-spirits. Pigeons
cried korup-korup; and doves sobbed owao, owao and cicada wheezed
and fluted and tinkled.
All those who wait for absent dear ones make, if they can, a
pilgrimage to the peak called Dakeyama. It is visible from any
part of the city; and from its summit several provinces can be
seen. At the very top is a stone of almost human height and
shape, perpendicularly set up; and little pebbles are heaped
before it and upon it. And near by there is a small Shinto shrine
erected to the spirit of a princess of other days. For she
mourned the absence of one she loved, and used to watch from this
mountain for his coming until she pined away and was changed into
a stone. The people therefore built the shrine; and lovers of the
absent still pray there for the return of those dear to them; and
each, after so praying, takes home one of the little pebbles
heaped there. And when the beloved one returns, the pebble must
be taken back to the pebble-pile upon the mountain-top, and other
pebbles with it, for a thank-offering and commemoration.
Always ere O-Toyo and her son could reach their home after such a
day, the dusk would fall softly about them; for the way was long,
and they had to both go and return by boat through the wilderness
of rice-fields round the town,--which is a slow manner of
journeying. Sometimes stars and fireflies lighted them; sometimes
also the moon,--and O-Toyo would softly sing to her boy the Izumo
child-song to the moon:--
Nono-San,
Little Lady Moon,
How old are you?
"Thirteen days,--
Thirteen and nine."
That is still young,
And the reason must be
For that bright red obi,
So nicely tied(2),
And that nice white girdle
About your hips.
Will you give it to the horse?
"Oh, no, no!"
Will you give it to the cow?
"Oh, no, no!(3)"
And up to the blue night would rise from all those wet leagues of
labored field that great soft bubbling chorus which seems the
very voice of the soil itself,--the chant of the frogs. And
O-Toyo would interpret its syllables to the child: Me kayui! me
kayui! "Mine eyes tickle; I want to sleep."
All those were happy hours.
(1) Such a repast, offered to the spirit of the absent one loved,
is called a Kage-zen; lit., "Shadow-tray." The word zen is also
use to signify the meal served on the lacquered tray,--which has
feet, like miniature table. So that time term "Shadow-feast"
would be a better translation of Kage-zen.
(2) Because an obi or girdle of very bright color can be worn
only by children.
(3) Nono-San,
or
O-Tsuki-san
Ikutsu?
"Jiu-san,--
Kokonotsu."
Sore wa mada
Wakai yo,
Wakai ye mo
Dori
Akai iro no
Obi to,
Shire iro no
Obi to
Koshi ni shanto
Musun de.
Uma ni yaru?
"Iyaiya!"
Ushi ni yaru?
"Iyaiya!"