The House of the Misty Star Part 12

All her warfare had been in the open. At no time in her visit to me, did she mention the unhappy conditions at her home nor voice complaints of its inmates.

Undisciplined, untrained as she was, there was in her nature a certain reserve which compelled admiration. When not on the defensive for what she considered her rights, she had a decided sweetness that drew me irresistibly. I did not approve of her methods, but my sympathy was deep for this child of freedom forced to live in the painful restrictions of a conservative j.a.panese family.

I was beginning to see that Zura would break long before she would bend.

To break at all meant disaster. To break alone meant ruin. She was of my country, my people. Without further ado I arrayed myself on the side of the one who had four against her.

Before she answered my question, she looked at me as a chained creature might eye a strange hand to see if it were outstretched for a caress or a blow. Having decided, she went on, "The ancientest one. Some red lilies I carried brought on the fit. An hour ago I gathered a few from the rice fields and took them to my room. When the old dame saw their crimson petals she began to foam at the mouth and splutter a lot of nonsense about the flowers being tongues of flame; she said they would set the house on fire and burn us all to a cinder. If I thought that I'd bring a cartload, and then run. She took them away and threw them in the hot bath. The lovely things shriveled like scalded baby hands. About then, my august grandfather arrived on the scene. He ordered me to put on j.a.panese dress and come to their old festival. I've planned otherwise, and I won't do it." She put on her hat and stabbed it with a long pin.

"Look here, Zura," I ventured, "you'll miss a joyfully good time if you don't go. The country people swarm to these festivals, and babies are as thick as ants. You'll see more pictures than you can paint in a life-time. There are queer things to buy and funny things to eat. The fire-walking ceremony is wonderful."

This caught her attention. "What do they do at this ceremony?"

"It has been a long time since I saw it, but I remember it was thrilling to watch the worshipers walk barefoot over the hot coals. Come along with me, Zura. Come on," I urged, seeking in my mind for a more persuasive word and finding a memory of Mr. Pinkey Chalmers to help me out, "and we'll make a night of it."

I saw nothing humorous in what I had said, but it had a curious effect on Zura. She changed her mind so swiftly, her manner grew so gleeful, I thought maybe I had made a promise I could not keep.

"All right, old sport," she laughed with reckless gaiety, "I'll go; you stick to me and I'll give you the time of your young life. But make it clear to the devotees in this house that I won't tie myself up in a kimono; neither will I bend an inch before any of those dropsical-looking images."

Soon we heard the rustle of the Master's silken garments. He entered, closely followed by his mother, wife and daughter, their kimonos and obis in colors soft and mellow as befitted older women, and each covered with an overcoat thin of texture and rich in quality. This outer garment was the insignia not only of rank, but of the grave importance of the occasion.

Their greetings to me were soon over, and Zura announced that she was going with us.

Without a glimmer of pleasure in her seeming willingness to obey, her grandfather said, "It is well."

Had he glanced at the girl when he voiced it, he would have chosen other words. In her very bright eyes there was a look which boded no spirit of good will.

Kishimoto San, with his mother, led the way on our pilgrimage. We followed behind; and bringing up the rear was an army of servants loaded with blankets, cushions and hampers of food. It was to be a long session of worship and festivities, and the family would need all the comforts of home before their return.

The festival was called "Tanjo Shaka" (Buddha's Birthday), and as our little party pa.s.sed through the great gates the crowds of holiday-makers, which thronged the enclosure, testified to the popularity of the day. The broad avenue leading to the steps of the old temple was lined on each side by temporary booths, from which one could purchase anything from a hot sweet potato to a much-decorated prayer, from false teeth to a charm to ward off the chicken-pox.

There was a man who made a dainty fan while you waited; the cook who made a cake while you prayed; the handkerchief man and the sock man; and ah me! the funny old codger, bald of head and shriveled of body, but with a bit of heaven in his weary old eyes. It was the reflection of the baby faces about him. His was the privilege of fashioning from sticky, sweet dough wonderful flowers of brilliant hue and the children flocked about him like birds of Paradise to a field of grain.

On every side were set up images of the infant Buddha. Around these, worshipers crowded that they might purchase some portion of the licorice tea poured over the image and supposed to guard against many evils.

Groups of white-garbed pilgrims from distant cities pa.s.sed on to worship, their tinkling bells keeping time to the soft pad of their sandaled feet. Under the overhanging boughs of the ancient trees were placed low platforms spread with bright red blankets, and thereon sat the family groups. In these throngs very few were well off in worldly possessions. For the ma.s.ses this day meant curtailment of necessities for many other days. It was a willing sacrifice, for, having done duty at the temple and cheerfully contributed their hard-earned "rin," they yielded themselves up to the enjoyment of being set free, in a s.p.a.ce where neither worry nor want were permitted to enter, where their poor lives touched something higher or less sordid than themselves. The day was a gift of the G.o.ds and they would be merry, for to-morrow was toil and poverty. It was neither satisfying nor permanent but all so simple and happy. Only a heartless stickler for creed and dogma would have labeled it idolatry or banished from the garden of the temple the partic.i.p.ants who were childlike in their enjoyment.

It took us some time to make our way to the building where Kishimoto guided us that he with his family might first offer their devotions.

Once there, the ceremony began. I was not expected to partic.i.p.ate and stood aside. It was not without anxiety that I heard the grandfather give a stern command to Zura to approach and kneel with him before the great bronze image, and her equally rigid refusal to do so.

With difficulty the proud old Buddhist refrained from creating a scene before the other worshipers, but it was plain that he was stung to the quick for the honor of his religion. From the look in his face he only bided his time.

The girl moved nearer to me and none too quietly mocked priest and worshiper gaily. Both maid and man seemed determined once for all to settle the supremacy of will. They were like two warriors measuring their strength before the final contest. The slip of a dark-eyed girl seemed an adversary easily disposed of. Though justly angered, her opponent had learned that if from him she had inherited tenacity of will, the legacy from her father had been an invincible belief in her individual right and courage to a.s.sert it.

After this clash we walked about till it was time for the evening meal.

It was served in an open tea-house. Hospitable and kind to the last degree, both host and hostesses pressed upon me every dainty eatable, and tried by all they knew to dispel the gathering clouds. I was touched by their efforts and did my best to smooth the way to peace, but my endeavors were vain. It was a conflict of conditions in which were both wrong and right, but which not to the end of time would ever be reconciled.

At last the family sat apart and talked in low tones. Zura moved closer to me and, though white-lipped and restless after the many encounters with her grandfather, her spirit was undaunted.

XI

A BROKEN SHRINE

The feast over, we moved on. The servants were left to pack up, and instructed to join the family at a certain shrine some distance away; devotions at that place would end the festival.

The closing down of night was like the working of some magic. From every point of temple, shrine, and tree sprang a light. Fireworks shaped like huge peonies, lilies, and lesser flowers spluttered in the air. Myriad lights turned the garden into a place of enchantment. In the hand of every feaster swung a paper lantern, gay in color, daring in design, its soft glow reflected on the happy face above. The whole enclosure seemed to be a bit of fairy land, where workaday people were transformed into beings made only for the pleasures of life.

I kept close to Zura regardless of where she led, for all she saw seemed not only to increase her interest, but to intensify her reckless mood.

On our way we paused at a PaG.o.da. A group of priests were marching around it chanting some ritual. They were very solemn and their voices most weird.

"What are they doing with their throats, Miss Jenkins?" asked Zura.

"Singing."

"Singing! Well, they know as much about singing as t.i.t-willows do about grand opera. But the colors of those gorgeous robes are fascinating.

Aren't the curves of that roof lovely? See how the corners turn up.

Exactly like the mustache of the little band master at home. Oh, look at those darling kiddies!" she suddenly exclaimed, going swiftly to the nearby stand of a cake man.

A dozen children or so, wistful-eyed and a bit sad, stood around. These were the city rats and street waifs, who only came from their holes after dark. Too poor to buy, they could only gaze and wish. The old man, for the sake of the hungry birdlings at home, could give no further of his store.

Zura stopped before the little heaps of sweet dough. The children closed about her. None were afraid, and all instinctively felt her friendship.

Her bargain was quickly made. Soon each child had a large share not only of cake, but also of tiny flags and paper cherry blossoms which had adorned the owner's booth. Zura emptied a small knitted purse of "rins"

and "sens." She had told me earlier that she had sold a picture to a postcard man. The cake dealer got it all.

We left the children open-mouthed, gazing at the "Ojosan" (honorable elder sister) who had proved nothing less than a G.o.ddess; but the girl heeded neither their looks nor their thanks, for we had come upon the ancient rite of firewalking, once a holy ceremony for the driving out of demons, now used for the purpose of proving the protection of the G.o.ds for the devout.

On a mat of straw, overspread by a thick layer of sand, was a bed of charcoal kept glowing by attendants armed with fans attached to long poles. Priests were intoning a prayer to the G.o.d of water, who lived in the moon, to descend with vengeance upon the G.o.d of fire. With much twisting of fingers and cabalistic waving of hands, a worshiper would draw something from a bag purchased from the priest. This he told the onlookers was spirit powder. Sprinkling a part of it on the fire and rubbing his feet with what was left he would cross the live coals, arriving at the other end unharmed. His swaggering air, indicating "I am divinely protected," deeply impressed the wondering crowd.

Absorbed in watching the fantastic scene, I failed for some time to notice Zura's absence from my side. Neither was she with her family, who were near by. Anxiously turning to search for her, I saw her opposite in a cleared s.p.a.ce and, through the background of an eager, curious crowd, Page Hanaford hurriedly pushing his way to the front.

At the edge of the fire stood Zura without shoes or stockings.

Page saw. His voice rang out, "Miss Wingate! I beg of you!"

For a moment she poised as light as a bird; then, lifting her dress, she quickly walked across the burning coals. The sparks flew upward, lighting the bronze and gold in her hair, showing too her face, a study in scornful daring.

The lookers-on cheered, some crying, "Skilful, skilful!" and others, "Brave as an empress!" "She is protected by her foreign G.o.d."

Heedless of the crowds, as if they were not, Zura took her hat, shoes, and stockings from the adoring small boy who held them and rejoined me.

I glanced around at the family. The women's faces said nothing. To at least two of them, Zura was a strange being not of their kind and with whom they had nothing to do. But the look in Kishimoto San's eyes made me shrink for the fate of the girl.

Laying my hand upon her arm I asked, "Oh, Zura, why did you do it?

Aren't your feet burned?"

"Burned! Nonsense! They are not even overheated. I used some of their spirit powder, which is plain salt. I did it to prove to myself that all they teach and do is fakery."