A/N: Slight revisions to Chapter I since I posted. This is intended to be one of those fics that takes place over multiple time periods, initially primarily the past with hints of the "present".
Disclaimer: Cause I forgot the first time. Don't own it, not claiming it, am exempt from litigation thereby.
Chapter II
As he flexed tired muscles to bring the farm wife's second bucket forth Miroku felt inclined to snort. Mushin could be the very devil at coming up with creative punishments for his admittedly frequent infractions of temple rules. Hauling water from the village well at the base of the mountain was wholly unnecessary given the temple's proximity to a rushing clear-running stream. But drawing buckets up for the villagers' use was rough work for a ten-year-old, as well as an excellent lesson in compassion.
Miroku also suspected that it provided a nice picture of piety that served to keep the temple ingratiated with the village women. After all, Mushin was a lousy cook with a large appetite and he relied on those women to supplement his diet with frequent gifts of well-prepared dishes.
Either his upper-body strength was improving or his sense of ill-use was dulling over time. In the spring this task had sent him groaning back up the mountain by mid-day, but the sun had been lowering in the sky for some time and, although he was tired he wasn't yet sore. At least the villagers didn't generally expect him to carry their water to their huts as well as draw it up from the well.
And she hadn't come yet.
Miroku was disappointed. Every other day he'd been sent to this task she had been among the first women at the well, waiting patiently for her turn to fill her bucket. And every other day as he handed the full pail over to her, careful not to slosh water over the sides, he had found his usually glib tongue tied up in impossible knots. Able only to nod in return for her thanks as he watched her stagger away with the heavy bucket.
Most of the women at the well were, to his eyes, old and careworn. He'd begun to understand the appeal of the powdered and painted faces of the geishas and tea-house girls for his father and Mushin. Then the next person in line was a tiny slip of a girl whose kimono bared browned knees above calves still chubby with baby fat. But her face framed the widest, most velvety brown eyes he could ever imagine possible, and a smile so sweet and shy that he felt his heart drop into his stomach to lie there like a leaden weight the rest of the day.
She was no older than Miroku and her bucket was clearly too big for her. That first time he filled it only half-way, sure she could not manage to carry it if it were full. But the other women chastised him for expecting her to make two trips and have to wait in line again. His face burning, he wordlessly refilled the bucket, passing it to her gently and watching her struggle away after giving him a nod of thanks and a repeat of that wonderful smile. One of the women who'd complained raised her brows and archly suggested that if he wasn't going to get back to the task at hand perhaps he should abandon it to help the girl carry the bucket home. He'd quickly turned back to the well.
And when a few days later Mushin had sworn potent curses in exasperation at yet another failing on his part, assigning him to the village well again, Miroku had gone without complaint. Well, without very much complaint; it wouldn't do for Mushin to think his punishment was ineffective as a deterrent, after all.
She never did come. Two siblings had stumbled down the path, carrying the bucket between them as the sun kissed the treetops lining the clearing around the well. They'd grumbled about sister's fever and mum's distraction feeding the baby. There was no particular worry in their voices, but Miroku noticed how the few women left near the well stood apart when they appeared.
As he pulled up the rope with their bucket he murmured blessings, searching his mind for those particularly associated with health and well-being.
The dark shadows filling the path as he climbed his way back up to the temple were echoed in his mind. Miroku attempted to formulate questions he could ask Mushin that would address the dull ache in his heart without exposing him to the monk's tart teasing. Mushin seemed to take great pleasure in seeing signs of his father in the young boy. Miroku wasn't altogether sure he appreciated the comparisons.
But all of that disappeared when he stepped in the temple's unusually brightly lit doorway. His father had returned!
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Despite regular application of the old miko's herbs and the young miko's lotions, the skin lying beneath the fine dyed linen gauntlet bound by his blessed rosary beads was cracked and dry. The throbbing in his palm was a constant factor underlying his existence, although he no longer felt the pain of it, just a dull, unrelenting pressure.
It was a constant reminder to return to the eightfold-path; all life was suffering. And his life would, at least, be short.
Despite his training, he found little comfort in the thought.
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Miroku had been somewhat surprised. A veritable feast had been laid out, and he recognized jars of sake well beyond what the temple's coffers could generally provide.
But there were no women.
His father had been different that night as well. He'd gripped Miroku's shoulder tightly, causing him to wince and then laugh to disguise the pain. Then he'd quizzed him sharply on his studies, commending some examples of calligraphy while bemoaning sloppiness in others. He'd laughed uproariously at Mushin's tales of his various inequities, causing the older monk to comment dryly on unbroken molds and the fruits of tainted trees.
Miroku had been pleased when he'd quoted what he'd thought was a rather obscure poem only to have his father finish the final line for him as his hand tousled bangs that always seemed too long for a neat appearance but too short to pull back behind his ears, let alone fit into any kind of queue. It was only his admiration for his father's thick braid that stopped him from shaving his head altogether like Mushin or his own grandfather.
But for all the attention he had received that evening he was also deeply aware of a striking sense of melancholy emanating from his father. Mushin's cheerfulness was also clearly forced.
And when the full moon had reached high in the sky melancholy had shifted to outright pain. The fine lines edging his father's eyes and mouth gained stark prominence as he'd suddenly hugged Miroku and then rushed for the door, stumbling in his haste.
Miroku had attempted to follow, sudden comprehension and childish disbelief warring within him. He made it as far as the path outside the temple gates before Mushin caught him, holding him back as the world itself seemed to spin in the firmament, the heavens rocked and unholy hell screamed about their ears.
He barely noticed when Mushin wrapped a rosary string across his outstretched palm to stifle the echoing wail wrenching physical as well as emotional pain. His father's inheritance.
Miroku never did ask Mush directly about the feelings inspired by the girl at the well.