TO awaken on an afternoon in summer upon a bed of moss and fragrant
leaves; to rest tired, aching eyes upon a clear, pale sky, which smiled
divinely through interlacing boughs of towering pines and hemlocks; to
hear the whistling calls of the wood-birds; the murmuring, sobbing
laughter of some fairy brooklet close at hand; to feel the touch of a
fugitive gentle breeze upon one’s brow—this was the fate of the
Tojin-san!
For how long he could not have told he lay unmoving, staring dreamily at
the sky above him, a sense of contentment, of rest, of comfort—such as
one might feel after a long, exhausting race, permeating his whole
being.
Then suddenly upon his consciousness there stole another sense—the dim,
exquisite feeling of a loved presence close at hand, and he raised
himself slowly, weakly upon his elbow. It was like music in his ears,
that faint, caressing voice he had listened for for so many days:
“To-o-jin-san! Goran nasai!” (august glance deign).
She was kneeling by his side, her questioning, wistful face hovering
above his own; her soft, timid little fingers touching his brow, his
eyes, his lips.
He felt himself falling backward again, as if in some delicious swoon,
from which there could be no awakening. Then like the dimly remembered
scenes of a vague dream, he seemed to recall a time wherein he had
wandered through some unending woods, seeking, seeking! Now the dream
had ended in this—this that was part of the dream itself!
She stirred ever so slightly, and as if he feared she might vanish by
her mere stirring, he reached up the great, once mighty arms, and sought
to envelop her within them.
Her hair had the odor of the pine woods; upon her lips there was the
breath of some sweet incense. She remained passive within his grasp, but
presently her voice, with its tremulous tone of tears, broke the spell
between them—reached him with the gentle appeal of a child distressed.
“Honorable water good for thirsty throat,” she said.
Now he released her, and she drew back to find the little cup beside
her. He let her raise his head and bring the cup to his lips, and with
his eyes still hungrily upon her he drank the water.
He was content merely to gaze at her, though it troubled him that she no
longer smiled. She said in a very stricken voice:
“August food also good for Tojin-san. Bud, alas! I god nudding bud rice!
Thas good enough for Tama—bud nod for you, Tojin-san.”
Even in his weakness he laughed joyously at the mere notion of food fit
for her being unfit for him, and at the sound of his low laughter her
face lighted up wonderfully.
“You gittin’ better!” she exclaimed joyously. “Now I bring you thad
rice. Too bad—bud thas all I got! I go ad grade temple at top those
hill. Priest too fat run quick to catch at me.” She laughed with an
element of her old mischievous defiance.
As he did not speak, too intent upon gazing at and marvelling on the
fairness of her face, her expression changed to one of melting anxiety.
“I am lig’ unto those foolish karasu [crow], who mek chatter all thad
time. Condescend forgive me, Tojin-san. I nod speag agin mebbe for—for
twenty hour—yaes?”
No one had ever kissed her hands before. The sound, the touch aroused
her wonder, her apprehension. She drew her hands instinctively from his,
and for a moment held them up before her, almost as if she looked at
them. Then with an impetuous, laughing little sob she thrust them back
upon him:
“Do agin ad my hands, Tojin-san! I lig’ those,” she said.
It was not alone the pallor of bodily illness, but of some mental pain
that swept over his face, as he set the little hands back into her lap,
reverently, gently.
Later, when strengthened with the simple meal she made for him, she told
him how the night before she had come upon him in the Atago Yama woods.
It was but two days since the terrible events at the Shiro had driven
them both forth into this enchanted wilderness. He had been ill but a
night; yet it seemed to him many days.
No, she had not heard him calling her, nor had she called him. This,
too, was part of the dream; but something louder than any human cry had
reached her in her hiding-place in the mountains, the intuitive, certain
sense of the blind. She had retraced her steps down the mountain-side,
and had gone cautiously seeking in the woods for him; and the gods had
guided her aright. Ah! to his very feet.
She humbly begged him to pardon her for leaving him; but she had thought
this was the only way she could save him from those who hated her.
Now—now she wished to repeat the prayer and promise she had made him
down in the old Shiro. Never again would she desert him. She would
always abide by his side. She humbly entreated that he would permit her
to remain with him, even if she must follow him throughout the world as
a slave, the meekest and lowliest of servants.
He did not reply, so obsessed was he still with the vision of her
loveliness. Throughout the golden afternoon he lay there watching her
every little movement, her slightest change of expression; thrilling
under the touch of her hands, the sound of her voice; obeying her
slightest request; permitting her to serve him as if he were a babe and
she his mother.
Gradually the murmuring of the crickets in the grass, the soft chirping
of the birds, even the babbling of the brook, the sighing of the gentle
breezes seemed to soften their tone to one concerted murmuring lullaby.
A veil crept gently over the sky, shutting out the sun and its light.
She put a pillow of pine needles beneath his head, and she covered him
over with a downy, silken mantle that smelled of temple incense and was
gorgeous beyond words with the golden embroidery of some sacred order.
And presently as he drowsed deliciously under the warm fragrant silk, he
felt her stirring at his feet, and her tired little voice came
whispering to him as if from very far away:
“Sayonara, Tojin-san! Imadzuka!” (Now we rest).
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