The House of the Misty Star by Frances Little (ereader for android TXT) 📕

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 assert 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 Pagoda. 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 tit-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 goddess; 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 gods 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 god of water, who lived in the moon, to descend with vengeance upon the god 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 space 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 god."

  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."

  Page joined us, inquiring anxiously, "You are not hurt? I call it plucky, but very foolish. Didn't you hear me call to you?"

  Zura, looking up from fastening her shoe, replied stiffly, "Mr. Hanaford, once is quite enough for you to interfere with my affairs."

  The boy flushed, then smiled, and dropped to the rear.

  As she spoke I could but notice her voice was a little less joyous. It sounded a note of weariness as if her high spirit, though unconquered, was a bit tired of the game.

  In depressed silence our party mingled with the throng on its way to the shrine where the last tribute was to be paid. The place of devotion was in a dense grove, isolated and weird. A single upright post held a frail, box-like contrivance. The inner recess of this was supposed to hold a relic of Buddha—some whispered a finger, some a piece of the great teacher's robe; but whatever the holy emblem, both place and shrine were surrounded with a veil of superstitious mystery and held in awe. A lonely taper burned before the shrine, dimly lighting a small opening covered with ground glass and disclosed above a written warning to all passers-by to stop and offer prayer or else be cursed.

  The crowd of worshipers paid tribute, but rather than pass on, lingered in the shadow, their curious eyes fixed upon the half-foreign girl.

  It was splendid for her to brave the fire-god, but no living soul dared face the Holy Shrine with the scorn Zura's face and manner so plainly showed. Admiration melted into distrust. They would wait and see the end.

  One by one my host, his mother, wife and daughter passed before the relic and reverently bowed. Then they stood aside in a silent group, slightly apart from Page and me. It was Zura's turn. In the face of Kishimoto San, as he looked at his granddaughter, was concentrated the power of his will and all the intolerant passion of his religion. He looked and he waited—in vain. The girl did not move.

  When he finally spoke, his voice was low, but his words fairly stabbed the air. "Obey me! Approach and bow!"

  Zura seemed to be turned to stone. But her words were as clear and as measured as his own. "I will not! Now or ever!"

  Past all endurance of the girl's disrespect, the man made one step forward, grasped Zura by the shoulders, and pushed her towards the shrine. The force sent her forward. As she stumbled she seized a bamboo pole. With it she gave one swift blow. At our feet the little shrine lay shattered, and out of its secret recess rolled a pasteboard box, mildewed and empty.

  Then, like the hissing wind, rose the quick anger of the people.

  At the same instant Page and the crowd rushed toward Zura, who, with bamboo stick in her raised hand, stood white and defiant.

  A coolie made a lunge at her. With closed fist Page Hanaford struck him full in the face; the other arm shielded Zura. Another man spat at her, and met the fate of his brother from Page's well-directed blow. There is nothing so savage as a Japanese mob when roused to anger. Knowing them to be cruel and revengeful, my heart stood still as I watched the throng close about Page and Zura. I knew the boy single-handed could not hold out long before the outraged worshipers.

  Then above the noise and curses and threats Kishimoto San's voice rang out. "Stop! you crawling vipers of the swamp! How dare you brawl before this sacred place? How dare you touch one of my blood! My granddaughter accounts to me, not to the spawn of the earth—such as you! Disperse your dishonorable bodies to your dishonored homes! Go!"

  Blind to reason, they cowered before a masterful mind. They knew the unbending quality of Kishimoto's will, his power to command, to punish. The number grew steadily less, leaving Page and Zura and her grandfather alone.

  Kishimoto San turned to the girl and with words cold as icicles, cutting as a whiplash, dismissed the child of his only daughter from his house and home. He cared neither where she went, nor what she did. She no longer belonged to him or his kind. He disowned her. Her foreign blood would be curse enough.

  Bidding his family follow, he turned and left. As Mrs. Wingate passed her disgraced offspring, with troubled voice and bewildered looks she repeated once more her set formula of reproof, "Oh, Zura! I no understand yo' naughty; I no like yo' bad."

  The homeless girl, Page, and I were left in the darkness.

  "Come with me, Zura," I said, not knowing what else to do; and the three of us made our way toward the high twinkling light that marked the House of the Misty Star.

  As the boy walked beside her, hatless, tie and collar disarranged, I could but see what his defense of Zura had cost him in physical strength. His face twitched with the effort to control his shaking limbs; that strange illness had robbed him of so much.

  "Please, Mr. Hanaford, do not trouble to climb the steps with us," I urged. "There is no danger. By now the crowd is doubtless laughing over the whole thing."

  "No, Miss Jenkins," he said, "I cannot leave you till you are safely shut in the house. Rather interesting, wasn't it?"

  "Interesting!