It was in the period of the fourth moon that Kimiko was carried away to
the home prepared for her--a place in which to forget all the
unpleasant realities of life--a sort of fairy-palace lost in the
charmed repose of great shadowy silent high-walled gardens. Therein she
might have felt as one reborn, by reason of good deeds, into the realm
of Horai. But the spring passed, and the summer came--and Kimiko
remained simply Kimiko. Three times she had contrived, for reasons
unspoken, to put off the wedding-day.
In the period of the eighth moon, Kimiko ceased to be playful, and told
her reasons very gently but very firmly: "It is time that I should say
what I have long delayed saying. For the sake of the mother who gave me
life, and for the sake of my little sister, I have lived in hell. All
that is past; but the scorch of the fire is upon me, and there is no
power that can take it away. It is not for such as I to enter into an
honored family--nor to bear you a son--nor to build up your house....
Suffer me to speak; for in the knowing of wrong I am very, very much
wiser than you.... Never shall I be your wife to become your shame. I
am your companion only, your play-fellow, your guest of an hour--and
this not for any gifts. When I shall be no longer with you--nay!
certainly that day must come!--you will have clearer sight. I shall
still be dear to you, but not in the same way as now--which is
foolishness. You will remember these words out of my heart. Some true
sweet lady will be chosen for you, to become the mother of your
children. I shall see them; but the place of a wife I shall never take,
and the joy of a mother I must never know. I am only your folly, my
beloved--an illusion, a dream, a shadow flitting across your life.
Somewhat more in later time I may become, but a wife to you
never--neither in this existence nor in the next. Ask me again--and I
go."
In the period of the tenth moon, and without any reason imaginable,
Kimiko disappeared--vanished--utterly ceased to exist.
V
Nobody knew when or how or whither she had gone. Even in the
neighborhood of the home she had left, none had seen her pass. At first
it seemed that she must soon return. Of all her beautiful and precious
things--her robes, her ornaments, her presents: a fortune in
themselves--she had taken nothing. But weeks passed without word or
sign; and it was feared that something terrible had befallen her.
Rivers were dragged, and wells were searched. Inquiries were made by
telegraph and by letter. Trusted servants were sent to look for her.
Rewards were offered for any news--especially a reward to Kimika, who
was really attached to the girl, and would have been only too happy to
find her without any reward at all. But the mystery remained a mystery.
Application to the authorities would have been useless: the fugitive
had done no wrong, broken no law; and the vast machinery of the
imperial police-system was not to be set in motion by the passionate
whim of a boy. Months grew into years; but neither Kimika, nor the
little sister in Kyoto, nor any one of the thousands who had known
and admired the beautiful dancer, ever saw Kimiko again.
But what she had foretold came true;--for time dries all tears and
quiets all longing; and even in Japan one does not really try to die
twice for the same despair. The lover of Kimiko became wiser; and there
was found for him a very sweet person for wife, who gave him a son. And
other years passed; and there was happiness in the fairy-home where
Kimiko had once been.
There came to that home one morning, as if seeking alms, a traveling
nun; and the child, hearing her Buddhist cry of "Ha--ï! ha--ï!" ran to
the gate. And presently a house-servant, bringing out the customary
gift of rice, wondered to see the nun caressing the child, and
whispering to him. Then the little one cried to the servant, "Let me
give!"--and the nun pleaded from under the veiling shadow of her great
straw hat: "Honorably allow the child to give me." So the boy put the
rice into the mendicant's bowl. Then she thanked him, and asked: "Now
will you say again for me the little word which I prayed you to tell
your honored father?" And the child lisped: "_Father, one whom you
will never see again in this world, says that her heart is glad because
she has seen your son._"
The nun laughed softly, and caressed him again, and passed away
swiftly; and the servant wondered more than ever, while the child ran
to tell his father the words of the mendicant.
But the father's eyes dimmed as he heard the words, and he wept over
his boy. For he, and only he, knew who had been at the gate--and the
sacrificial meaning of all that had been hidden.
Now he thinks much, but tells his thought to no one.
He knows that the space between sun and sun is less than the space
between himself and the woman who loved him.
He knows it were vain to ask in what remote city, in what fantastic
riddle of narrow nameless streets, in what obscure little temple known
only to the poorest poor, she waits for the darkness before the Dawn of
the Immeasurable Light--when the Face of the Teacher will smile upon
her--when the Voice of the Teacher will say to her, in tones of
sweetness deeper than ever came from human lover's lips: "_O my
daughter in the Law, thou hast practiced the perfect way; thou hast
believed and understood the highest truth;--therefore come I now to
meet and to welcome thee!_"