I
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.[3] 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.
[3] Such a repast, offered to the spirit of the absent one
loved, is called a _Kagé-zen_; lit., "Shadow-tray." The
word _zen_ is also used to signify the meal served on
the lacquered tray--which has feet, like a miniature table.
So that the term "Shadow-feast" would be a better translation
of _Kagé-zen_.
The child was her constant delight. He was three years old, and fond of
asking questions to which none but the gods knew 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 cicadæ 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,[4]
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!"[5]
[4] Because an obi or girdle of very bright color can be worn
only by children.
[5]
Nono-San,
_or_
_O-Tsuki-San_
Ikutsu?
"Jiu-san--
Kokonotsu."
Sore wa mada
Wakai yo,
Wakai ye mo
Dori
Akai iro no
Obi to,
Shiro iro no
Obi to
Koshi ni shanto
Musun de.
Uma ni yaru?
"Iyaiya!"
Ushi ni yaru?
"Iyaiya!"
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: _Mé kayui! mé kayui!_ "Mine
eyes tickle; I want to sleep."
All those were happy hours.