If You Need Her
By Scribe of Figaro
MIROKU'S JOURNEY: PART IV
"Leave the road and memorize
This life that passed before my eyes
Nothing is going my way"
- REM, "Find the River"
He rested only for an hour or so, only long enough for the lamps around the hut to require lighting. The scent of dinner woke him, and it felt to him like food was yet another thing he had forgotten. Though his own memory may be lost, that of his tongue was not. He was ravenous.
She must have expected this, for the woman only gave him small portions of rice, tea, and fish at a time. Even though he knew he would be terribly sick if he ate everything at once, he probably wouldn't have been able to stop himself without her.
"Forgive me, but could I know the name of my savior?" he asked.
She blushed. "The woman who lives to serve you is Sukui."
"Arigato, Sukui-sama."
She brought both hands to her mouth to hide her smile.
He ate an incredible deal of food, but it was spread out over hours so that his stomach gave no complaint. After putting away the dishes, Sukui took a lantern and a bundle of clothes and led him to the river where she fetched her water.
He placed the clothes near the bank and waited for the bobbing light of the lamp to be far enough from him to be respectable. It was scandalous enough to be here bathing with an unmarried woman in shouting distance, but he hoped if she was far enough away it would appear coincidence that they might here at the same night. He cared little for his own privacy, but the honor of a woman was something he would not tarnish.
Now that he could see the lamp no more he stripped off the tattered robe and apron. The latter he folded very, very carefully and set on a rock so that it would not touch soil.
He bathed, scrubbing the dirt from his hair with sand from the beach, and when he looked up at the full moon he suddenly found himself very lonely. Sukui said he had friends that traveled with him and Sango. He wondered where they were and what they were doing. Were they thinking of him now?
He wondered, was Sango staring at the same moon, yearning for him as he yearned for her? Did she cry for him when they buried him, or was she strong and silent? Was she a miko, soft and gentle, or was she a taiji-ya, strong and fit, the leader of their group?
Did she have long, raven hair as he imagined? Were her eyes dark and brown like the ageless forests? Was her smile the sun of a thousand summers, and did she fit in his arms just so?
He sighed wistfully. I'll ask Sukui when I return to her hut. She saw all of them earlier. She will tell me what Sango looks like.
He walked back to shore, drying himself with the towel. He glanced through the clothes Sukui had, the clothes of her deceased husband.
I'll make an offering to him tomorrow. A very heartfelt one, for being blessed with a wife so kind and honorable.
He frowned.
The least I can do for the dead man whose fundoshi I'm wearing.
He finished the folds of the loincloth and pulled on the black kimono she had given him. It lacked the flared sleeves of his priestly robe, but it was long and wide, giving him the same freedom of movement. He could tell by the cut it was made to fit a larger man tightly.
He felt a bit uncomfortable without an inner kimono, but clearly he was not going to ask her for anything after giving him so much. He picked up his purple cloth again, studying it. It was torn and dirty, but certainly wearable. He tied up his new kimono to his thighs and washed the cloth in the river. It would be fit to wear when it dried tomorrow.
As he turned back to the clothing left on the beach, his eyes caught movement in the moonlight. A brief sense of panic ran through him.
The feeling died quickly as he realized that what he had seen was Sukui's hair as she crept away from a hiding place in the bushes.
She must have been watching me the entire time.
He sighed.
Well, there's not much I can do about that. She doesn't know I saw her, and there's no reason to say so. I'll keep it to myself; consider it payment for the clothes and food.
The houshi squeezed the cloth dry and draped it over his shoulder.
When I heard that noise, I very nearly grabbed my shakujou and prepared myself to fight. It felt like instinct, and if it were youkai I feel like I would have known how to defeat it. Maybe I am a youkai fighter. Perhaps a good one.
He bundled up his damaged kimono and Sango's apron. The latter he held very tightly to his chest, fingers digging deep into the cloth, trying to suck out the last bits of Sango's essence in their folds, needing her desperately.
I will take my leave in the morning. I will beg for money if I must, but I will continue on the road Sango has taken. Sukui said they were four days ahead of me; I'm sure with dedication I can catch up to them before the sun sets twice.
Bless me with your patience, Buddha, for I have none until my Sango is returned to me!
Author's Note:
Sukui is Japanese for "help" or "savior."
- Scribe
Chapter posted 3 March 2003