The Way of the Gods

by John Luther Long

XXI
IN THE ANDON'S LIGHT

But one night there came a gentle tapping on his shoji—like the dream. He sat up and listened. There was more tapping—still like the dream. And then a whispered voice—not the dream—which woke him to mutiny:—

"Ani-San! Beloved! Do you no more wish me? Oh, it is so long—so long! And we have walked—walked—walked. I would rather know and die. At first I thought you dead—you said nothing but that should keep you from me—death! death! And I could not sleep—I never slept! At last I decided to come and get your body, steal it out of the grave, and take it back with me, where I might weep over it and make the offerings—only your dear, dead body I have loved and which has loved me—lain down by my side, held me in its arms! And so I came with Isonna—faithful Isonna is here—and learned that you are not dead, and all the glory. O beloved! My soul swells with joy of you. You, mine, once mine, so glorious in the eyes of our country! For, oh, Ani-San, it is my country, too! They shall not take that from me, though it makes me an outcast. And my feet touch it now. My country! Nippon! Nippon! After all the evil years of exile. My emperor! My gods! Forgive me, beloved, but it must all come out of my heart, or it will burst. I know you are there. I know you listen! I see—touch—adore—your shadow. I have seen you! I have hid in the trees—Isonna and me—for three days, until we are very hungry and have begged rice. Three times—on each day—we have seen you. Three nights we have watched your dear shadow. Once it prayed and then rushed upon the outside and spoke loudly to the heavens—words which we could not hear. Were they of me? Were they hate or love? To-night I touch your shadow—put my lips upon it on the paper. For—yes—I know that is all I am ever to have: the shadow of you. You do not wish me! That is what my mother said; and laughed. She struck me and said her words concerning you had all come true. Ah, pardon, lord. What matter that? It is three days! Three days! We could not die until the moon was dark; for some one, passing, might see and find our bodies. But I am glad for those three days. Now the moon is gone—the moon which sees our deeds and tells them to the gods of night; and, lord, only to-night, when the moon was gone, could I come to you to say farewell—Ani-San, to-night we die—Isonna and I. Unless you still wish me? No! Pardon that. But—if you should! Ah! if you should! Speak one word though it be Go! Only one word, that I may die in the blessed sound of your voice! Oh, it has been so lonely! For you first taught me how to be happy—to laugh, to love. And then you went, and took it all away—all, all away. Beloved, you do not wish us—No? so, to-night we die. We shall not harm you, even in our death. As long as this little paper wall is between us you are not contaminated even while we live. No one will know us in this far land; and we shall die where no one will ever find us; only the gods, only the pitying gods. So we do not harm you in coming here. We would not have come had we known you lived. Ani-San, it is finished—all quite finished; you wish me no more. I hear no blessed word. Lo! I listen—listen with my soul—but I hear no word! All the gods in all the skies bless you. All the gods in all the skies make you happy. All the gods in all the skies make you glorious. Ani-San, beloved, farewell, forever and forever, farewell!"

At first the little color-bearer put his hands madly to his ears; but not for long. Could you? And at the end he heard her sink slowly to the earth, slipping, sighing, down the shoji.

At that moment he would have had her if the empire itself had fallen for it. He did not wait to part the shoji. He plunged through them as he had done once before in China. And there at his feet was the pitiful little heap. Too numb she was to be wakened by his tumult.

He carried her within and laid her in the lamplight. The pretty face was ghastly with starvation. The feet were nearly bare, for walking had worn out her sandals. The kimono was one he knew. But it had been in the rain and had trailed many tired miles in the dust. He did not need the light of the andon to tell him of her sufferings. Nor even her voice. And presently when she woke it was not of that she told. Indeed, of that she never spoke. It was all forgotten in that waking in his arms. And all she said—all she ever said of it—was to ask him, with a breath, if she dreamed.

She slept a little, then woke and said with terror:—

"Isonna!"