THE Tojin-san took what measures he could for their future protection.
An exploration throughout the seven-storied pagoda brought to light some
old weapons—a rifle and a sword, once evidently her father’s. They were
out of date, and in bad condition, but better than nothing, he decided.
As she had shown him a small exit in the rear, of which the outside of
the pagoda gave no inkling, he decided to barricade the main entrance.
This he did, after a gigantic effort, by piling several of the images
before it until they effectually blocked the entrance. As their faces
were turned outward he surmised their weird effect upon the marauders
when, after forcing the doors, they should find themselves fronted with
so formidable a guard as these.
No one, so she said, had stepped across the threshold since that
frightful day when, in their fanatical hatred, the danka had murdered
her parents.
She had always been kept hidden in one of the upper stories of the
pagoda, and at this time no one had seen her save her parents.
On that day she had fled to the very roof in her first impulse of mortal
terror; but even from there, with her ears covered by her hands, she had
heard the cries of her father and her mother, and the wild, brutal,
triumphant shouting of those who had killed them.
A strange sense of quiet came suddenly upon her. She crept stealthily,
but fearlessly, back down the seven stories of the pagoda, and opened
the great doors that gave ingress to the temple. There for the first
time the people of Fukui saw her, standing like a flame upon the altar
of the great Shaka, whither she had leaped from the door in a single
bound.
Her hair was more glittering than the altar itself; her eyes, her skin
were of a color no man in Fukui had ever seen before. She seemed to
their dazzled eyes a vengeful spirit, whom the Lord Buddha had uplifted.
They stood as if petrified, staring at her as she swayed before them on
the very lap of the god. Then, with a concerted cry of superstitious
fear and horror, they slunk from the temple, leaving her alone—with her
dead!
As the Tojin looked about the great chamber, he felt himself almost
unconsciously rehearsing that grim scene of the past. He knew why her
hand had been set against the whole world, why she had terrified and
defied her tormentors. Even now, as she repeated the tale to him her
face was white and fixed.
“Now you know,” she said, “why I am call the fox-woman! Perhaps thas
true ’bout me. Mebbe I am gagama!”
“You are not,” he said, “even in spite of them.”
She was silent, staring out before her in some abstracted trance.
Suddenly she sighed:
“I nod lig’ udder people! Thas bedder nod come near unto me. I mek the
trobble, and sometimes—the death for those who seek me! Down in Fukui
perhaps already they have tol’ you of thad—Gihei Matsuyama?”
“They told me,” he said, “but I do not believe them.”
“Thas true,” she said, and there was a plaintive note of weariness in
her voice. “He cum lig’ unto a storm that fall down from those sky wiz
no warning. When I am come from my door, he there to await me. He speag
my name sof’—kind—lig’ you, Tojin-san! No one aever speag unto me lig’
thad before. No! They bud cry to me those name and curse and throw the
stone upon me! Bud he! he speag lig’ you augustness.
“Ad firs’ my heart stan’ still—it ’fraid. I thing of my father—my
mother, and I am ’fraid he come kill me also. Then again he speag my
name sof’ and kind, an’ I say ad my heart: ‘Thas god come veesit me!’
An’ so—an’ so—for him I mek the sacred danze. But when I am through, I
know I mek meestake—thas nod god ad all! Thas jost man from Fukui!
“Then my heart laugh wizin me, and my feet carry me quick across those
mountain. I loog nod bag, though I hear his voice, for I am thad ’fraid
agin. I know nod why, Tojin-san.”
Her voice faltered. She went a timid step nearer to him, touched his
hand questioningly with her own.
“The blind see wiz one thousand inner eye, bud, ah, alas! they see nod
also for another. How could I know thad the foolish one would nod loog
upon his steps?”
She shuddered and covered her face with her little shaking hands.
“How many days I waiting ad thad pool—jos’ waiting, Tojin-san, wiz the
hope that mebbe some day he goin’ come bag out those water.”
“You must never think of it again,” he said. “You were entirely
blameless.”
“Sometime I thing,” she went on wistfully, “thad mebbe those Fukui
people right, an me?—I am truly a fox-woman. For see what trobble,
what—death I mek for those who see me. Even for you, kind Tojin-san,
alas! I mus’ bring you those pain!”
“No—that is not so,” he said.
“I know nod when or how firs’ I have hear of your comin’. They talk of
nothing else at Fukui, an’ I am always listen, though they see me nod.
Something tell me, when you come all those worl’ goin’ change for me!
Thas’ why I wait, wait, all thad winter for your comin’.”
A smile, wistful, yet joyous, crept over her lips.
“You din know,” she said, “thad firs’ day in Fukui, thad I too am ad
your house to welcome you. Bud me? I am nod wizin thad house. I am out
in thad snow. I kinnod speag unto you lig’ those others. I may nod even
touch you honorable hand. Bud all same I know you are Tojin—lig’ unto my
father! Oh, how glad—how joy I am! Though my feet, my hand, my nose, my
honorable ears perish wiz those cold, still I am wait for you. When all
those honorable exalted ones gone—then—then I, too, call you name!
To-o-jin-san!”
She made a little shivering motion.
“Bud sup-pose I bring you also thad—thad death?”
“There is nothing to fear,” he said steadily, “and if there were, I am
strong enough to face any peril with you at my side!”
“Oh, my mind travel bag on thad past! I hear again my father’s voice—my
mother’s cry! I am toaching their beloved body. I am tek them in thad
black night unto the Sho Kon Sha, and wiz these liddle hands, all alone,
I am put them in their—grave! Tojin-san! Ah-h!”
She hid her face against his arm.
“If they should do to you the same!” she said.
“For myself I have no fear,” he said.
“Why nod leave me now?” she urged. “Go bag alone down those mountain. No
one speag hard to you who so moch mek respect. Wiz me there is moch
trobble, an’ mebbe worse!”
“Without you,” he said, “there is more trouble, and a deep pain—an
aching void that could never again be filled. With you here alone, cut
off from all the world, holding your little hands in my own, looking
into your face, why, even facing death, I am content—happier than I had
ever dreamed it possible to be.”
“Thas beautiful word you speag,” she said. “Bud if the gods—”
She folded her hands across her breast and closed her eyes in prayer.
“Temmei itashikata kore maku!” she whispered lowly. (From the decree of
heaven there is no escape.)
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