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The Monk and the Missionary
-March, past –
The sigh that escaped my throat was not exasperated, nor uncalled for. It was of pure frustration and exhaustion. Turning tired eyes away from the vessel atop the fire pit I stayed the ladle in Sai’s hand, stopping the relentless hollow noise of it clanking the floorboards. Then I faced the direction where an equally energetic twin was repeating the title ‘Ka-sa’ until she had my attention. Under my gaze however, she immediately stopped with a giggly look about her.
… I turned back to the boiling water.
“Ka-sa ~ Ka-sa ~ Ka-sa ~ Ka-saaaaa!”
Groaning in defeat I turned to Kaori again, who silenced after accomplishing her mission. The clank of a wooden ladle began to sound behind me.
Eyes shutting in disbelief I took several steady breaths – only to be interrupted by an uncanny hiss from Kirara. I peered over to see the feline walk out of the room with tense demeanor, the fur on one of her poufy tails matted and jagged looking. My gaze narrowed on Sai, who looked back up at me innocent as ever despite the pale fur caught in her tiny fingers.
“You two … are incorrigible. Please just let mommy finish making breakfast and behave?”
They seemed to stare at me a long moment, then simply maintained what they’d been doing since sunrise.
Growing too intolerant of the situation I pinched the bridge of my nose, tapping the confiscated wooden ladle against my thigh in a useless attempt to count to ten.
When my eyes opened again they were intent on finding my oh so convenient scapegoat, currently sleeping the morning away beyond the shouji to our room.
‘What makes him so special?’ My mind seemed to brood, ‘Why couldn’t HE be the light sleeper? The one stuck on parental patrol at the slightest noise of their rousing?’
Pouting my lip out in an expression of envy I could not resist my demand for justice. Scooping up each child (after unsuccessfully trying to remove my stolen sandal from Sai’s viselike grip), I opened the shouji and shooed them in to wake their father.
This gave me a full five minutes of peace to collect my thoughts. Running away came to mind, but it was with a laugh. Houshi-sama would never survive. It was obvious that the little darlings took a toll on my sanity from time to time, but it was the nature of infants and I could never blame them for that. I should find it greedy of me to ask for a vacation when freedom was mine to obtain during our retreat to Mushin’s temple last summer.
There I was able to become comfortable in my own skin once more – train the day away and be a mother again by sunset.
But, of course …
My hand swept down to pat the gentle swell of my belly.
Houshi-sama and I had a little too much fun at the temple as well.
Thanks to our little rendezvous I won’t soon be seeing my slayers suit.
‘All that training for naught.’
As if the gods themselves understood my plight – or rather just two mischievous toddlers – the pained yelp of a startle came from our room. Nonchalantly I set aside my cooking and headed for the door.
SWWHHAP!
“ Gyah! Must you open the door so wide?”
“ Hm . . And must you make such a racket in the morning?”
I shut the door behind me, sparing my miserable husband the harsh light of mid morning. I noted the poised sandal in Sai’s hand and gave her a little ‘good job’ wink while his arm still hindered his vision. When he finally managed to squint indigo eyes at me I voiced my plans with determination (if not a little exaggeration on my part); that I was going ‘out’ for the day.
The ambiguousness of the statement confused me as much as it did him, but I figured I’d find something to do. Outside our home. When he finally bent his head to the request – well, it was more simply submitting to the three glaring females in the room – I slipped out the door with a new found feeling of elation.
‘I’m free. I’m free! I’m-’
The sound of hasty feet making for the door.
‘Oh shi- Run taijiya! Run!’
I bolted down the engawa stairs as fast as a five-month pregnant woman could before Miroku had a chance to open the shouji and confront me with whatever he needed to say,
“Sango! Oh, Sango! I know you can hear me.”
“Yeessss~?” I chimed back in a tone dripping with sweetness. If he wanted to call me back – change his mind – that was alright with me. I’d simply have to drug his breakfast with sleeping powder. Or poison. Either would work by this point.
“ Oh well uh …. What if something happens while you’re away?”
I turned to flash him a smile, the sugary high of my voice threatening in its own sadistic way, “You should be more concerned with the consequence if something were to happen ^ ^ Hmhm~”
Waving him off with dainty little fingers I spun on my heels again and headed off toward the stone walkway.
-*-
The day started out alright. I was able to browse the village and gather a few spoils for the children until noon. Then I spent the remainder of the afternoon talking with Lady Kaede about this and that, and she generously gave me more herbs to help with my morning sickness. By the time I was ready to venture off again she was escorting me to the exit of the hut.
“Thank you again,” I offered, slipping my blue pack around my shoulders and knotting it.
“Think nothing of it, child. It is the least I can do for …”
Her thoughts lingered while her eye was caught somewhere in the distance. I followed curiously and immediately wished I hadn’t. Far off at the entrance of the village a man was being beaten violently by a group of farmers. His screams were only vaguely audible from this distance.
“What odd behavior coming from the villagers,” she remarked.
The elderly woman began to shuffle into her sandals when I stilled her with a hand on her shoulder.
I shook my head, “No Kaede-sama, I’ll handle this.”
She seemed to quirk her eyebrow, “I appreciate your concern, but it is my job as miko to establish peace in this village.” Grabbing her cane-like bow she took the lead in front of me.
“Besides,” she started with a laugh, “My bones may be old and feeble, but they are mine. Ye wouldn’t want to risk putting the babe in danger.”
I frowned subtly and touched my abdomen. Perhaps she had a point, but I refused to let her go unattended. Without a word I waddled behind her until the houses gave way to the grassy path of InuYasha’s forest.
“Ye three, what is the meaning of this?”
The village men broke free of their huddle above the man they were kicking, panting for breath. Said man did not even acknowledge our presence and resumed his trembling balled up position. I eyed him with pity, realizing he was not much older than myself and how absolutely frightened he appeared.
But what strange bearings he had …
“Lady Kaede – this man is one of them.” The man closest to us guttered, looking with disgust at the stranger.
“One of who?” she asked with casual coolness.
“The barbarians from across the sea!” the second shouted.
“B-barbarian? Barbadian he calls me!” The man in the dirt said with irony, and was rewarded by a kick in the side. He cowered and hugged himself closer.
“… And ye beat him because …?”
The third man grunted and wrinkled his nose, “I found him arguing with my wife earlier. He was trying to convert her. We don’t need the likes of him around our women and children.”
“He’s a missionary,” I finally deducted out loud, taping my fist within my palm. Kaede took a barely recognizable step backward.
“We want him out. He’ll burn down our shrine – like before!”
I thinned my lips about the incident in question. Better they blame missionaries rather than the real culprit for the shine fire on the full moon. But it was still unfair …
With a quiet breath the old woman closed her good eye, “Whatever he may be, it is no excuse for brutality. Ye dishonor us by treating his differences with hostility. In this aspect, ye are no better than the people ye resent.
Now for goodness sake, off with ye. Leave the man be, and I will tend to him.”
Begrudgingly the group stomped off. Not before spitting on the man, however …
‘Honestly.’ I huffed, bending down with a bit of difficultly.
What beasts men could be when faced with disparity. To not agree with someone was one matter, but harming him over it was quite another. I myself found all these rumors about foreign holy wars unnerving, but that’s just what they were; Rumors. According to Man all youkai were bloodthirsty monsters unworthy of kinship. I’ve met more than my fair share of gentle creatures in my travels to know that not everything is as it seems to be.
Shaking my head I commenced helping the man pick up his disheveled things. Most were small books bound similarly to the ones I’ve seen Kagome bring back, but the lettering on these were much less neat and … foreign, of course. I had a hard time even looking at which way the text faced. Giving up on my attempt I simply piled the papers underneath their covers. The villagers had taken the liberty of ripping out a few chunks of one in particular.
“I’m sorry about this. I don’t know where everything goes.” I reached out to hand the book over to him, my attention minimally distracted by the goldleaf illuminated cross on the cover. He hesitated a moment, before snatching it from my hand and gripping it tightly to his chest.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I defended, a little annoyed at the harsh expression he regarded me with – as if he were faced by a wild animal.
His eyebrows relinquished their sulking position, but his gaze was still skeptic. He stood on wobbly feet without breaking the stare, gathering his things into a messy heap in his arms,
“Yes, well … thank you kindly, Madam.”
His eyes flickered toward my abdomen for a millisecond, before his back turned sharply. With brisk steps he headed off toward the forest entry.
“Sir,” Kaede called after him, “Mightn’t ye want someplace to stay? With such brute behavior from the villagers the least an old woman can do is offer ye hospitality.”
“Kaede-sama,” I warned, little more than a mumble beside her. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
The miko shook her head at me and watched his silhouette disappear beneath the shadows of trees, disappointed that he had not acknowledged her offer, “He and I are vastly different, but with kindness I had hoped he could see us another way.”
I pressed my lips, once more astounded by the elder woman’s tolerance. Wisdom did come with age after all. Standing I brushed the dirt from my knees, tossing my hair back a moment later at a strong March breeze. The wind jostled something nearly hidden in the long grass, and I peered over to see the pages of a book rolling in sunlight.
“Oh … he left one.”
I took it up and wiped at the soiled leather cover, taking a moment before curiosity led me to skim through its contents. Without breeching ten pages I clamped it shut hastily, flushing a fine shade of pink. The audacity this parchment held! I may as well burn it.
“Something wrong, child?”
“N-no, Lady Kaede. I must be on my walk before the sun sets. Sayonara.” Bowing my head I headed for the perimeter of the forest, seeing as the intended path was occupied by strange company. The old woman was nothing more than a speck on the horizon when I shifted a glance around and withdrew the notebook again.
It was a sketchbook. Its pages were full of fantastically rendered beings in some red substance I hadn’t seen before. I tried to look past the unabashed nudity of the subjects, offended by their shamelessness. Instead I was captivated by replication drawings of buildings and indoor environments .Ceilings that seemed to span forever with decorative figures adorning them. Samples of towns where the homes and roads seemed entirely made of stone.
Such places existed? It frightened me.
“You there!”
I jumped at the distant shout, stamping the book shut again as if it were taboo. I watched the figure come closer on hasty feet and realized it was the foreigner again, out of breath from his exertions.
As he gulped for air I debated my exterior toward this man.
“At that clearing – huh – You wouldn’t happen to of seen …”
I gave him a puzzled expression. The arrogance he prided so heavily earlier was lost to a tone of woe and destituteness. One would think he’d lost a child. Slipping my hand into my sleeve I retrieved the book. He took it to his chest affectionately the moment it was in his grasp, sighing elatedly.
“Oh thankyouthankyouthankyou,” he exhaled. But then, realizing his façade had broken, straightened his posture rigidly and cleared his throat. “Thank you, Madam.”
He swung to leave again.
“Wait,” I stopped him. He peered over his shoulder suspiciously.
“Did you draw all those?”
Gradually he turned back toward me, gazing skyward with a bitten lip. “Aye, Madam.”
“They’re wonderful, ano – aside from all the nudity.”
“Ah, but it is heroic nudity! Man’s body is God’s beautiful gift, and only the courageous of heart may show it without guilt. Thus is the curse of Original Sin.”
He thumbed at the book’s spine affectionately, pleased to have an audience to speak warmly about it,
“I spent many years in Rome and studied from the works of great genius. They fashioned sculptures so real in God’s image you would believe them to walk off their pedestals at night.”
“You speak very fondly of your work,” I observed, astonished by the passion in his voice. “Our villagers have had you wrong then. You are instead a traveling artist?”
“Please Madam, do not flatter me. This book is but a hobby.”
Placing it in his rope tied satchel he slung it over his shoulder, straightening his stance.
“I am what they say I am. A man who has come to rid this land of its evils. A monk.”
“… You’re kidding.”
My eyes swept over his features again. He looked nothing like any monk I had ever seen. His robes were woolen and brown, baggy and knotted at the waist by a rope belt. He wore roman sandals, and on his breast hung that peculiar cross again. Though he was young his bowl cut dusty brown hair was shaven atop, a mark of humility he would come to explain.
“You doubt me, Madam?”
“Not entirely, but … How do you suppose you could exercise demons when three village men were too much for you to handle?”
His expression puckered in aggravation, “I’ll have you know I’ve expelled two devils thus far in my travels. Can you say as much?”
“Yes. I can. I have slain hundreds, because that is my profession.”
He seemed to sneer, “A priestess with child?”
“A taijiya. We handle our battles physically. Monks such as my husband handle the cleanup.”
His expression brightened quizzically, “So the two of you have seen the light of God?”
“I know not which god you speak of,” I offered, a little hesitant to approach his intolerance. “I pray for the dead, and that is all. Marriage has since brought me into the philosophies of Buddhism.”
His brow furrowed, “But Madam that is not enough. You are at risk of damnation.”
“Listen,” I interrupted, catching his eye. “I have seen damnation, and it is not after death. I have watched my family die and village perish, and have seen men do horrors beyond fathomable justification … I do not need a little man on a cross to teach me the meaning of suffering.”
The missionary was taken aback, his jaw lack from the knowledge. He quieted, and gripped the crucifix at his chest as if the comment had personally wounded him.
Sighing inwardly I took a step toward him, parting his hands to gaze at the figure in anguish,
“This world we live in is cruel. And what brought us here, whatever we may interpret it as, gave us the conscience to see wrong for what it is. By simply treating each other kindly we live without guilt. We do right for the sake of doing right, not in fear of some unseen force damning us otherwise.”
The man’s eyes softened in silence, and feeling awkward at his nearness I placed the pendant down and took a small step back.
“Spoken like poetry,” he commented. The monk let out a deep sigh and turned his face heavenward again. “You will know purgatory for not accepting Him, but His ways have at least blessed you.”
I took advantage of his upturned head to roll my eyes. He hadn’t listened to a word I said. The croak of a raven sounded in a nearby pine, and I discovered the deep orange of the sky. Sunset already.
“Say … These woods can be dangerous at night. Why not take Lady Kaede up on her offer to stay the night?”
“I do not feel welcomed in that village,” he murmured, testament to his cowardice.
“If you promise not to berate my husband for his profession you are welcome to stay at our home. It is far off the village and undisturbed by its residents.”
I half reflected on the potential scene, two sects of monk barking over their separate beliefs. I could only imagine what would insure should InuYasha decided to pop by for supper. Two babbling toddlers concluded the jumble of perfect chaos in my mind.
With much hesitance he complied, pressured by the calling raven in the trees. Superstition, he said.
“Thank you for your generous offer, Madam.”
“Sango,” I corrected, bowing subtly. He did so too, incorrectly from inexperience. I didn’t mind. “And you …”
“Ah. Francis. Brother Francis.”
-*-
‘This was a bad idea.’
Averting my gaze to the floorboards I sipped at a bowl of soup.
After Francis had practically dashed up the shrine staircase as if it were made of hot coals he later found our home ‘hostage’ to the spirit of the devil’s feline. He climbed the plum tree to distance himself from Kirara’s curious sniffs. Then fell off when his frantic waving of the shiny metal cross led the nekomata to pounce playfully. They continued this game of cat and mouse in the yard while I walked up the engawa to warn my husband of our unexpected company.
When I opened the door it was surprisingly quiet. Miroku had just about passed out beside the sleeping children. He acknowledged my entrance with some sort of mumble I couldn’t quite understand. I told him as sweetly as I could that he needed to be awake and he complied in a daze of exhaustion, getting up to help me prepare supper.
And here we were now at our dinner side conversation – Foreign monk trying to pick a fight with cranky Buddhist monk who didn’t seem to want to recognize his presence. The twins busied themselves with their new toys I purchased earlier, having been awoken by Francis as he tried to pry Kirara from his leg.
“You’ve prepared a wonderful meal, Madam Sango.”
I glanced back into reality, acknowledging the missionary and his compliment, “Well thank you, but I had help. My husband prepared the rice.”
His eyes lowered cynically as he peered over to the mentioned man, “The rice is bland.”
“That’s not the only thing that’s bland,” Miroku retorted casually, his eyes closed as he sipped at his bowl.
“Anata …”
A navy eye peeked open to look at me. It did not linger long enough to observe the disappointment in my expression, but instead trailed to whatever was going on behind my back. He quickly placed his meal aside and stood with a hurried pace,
“No no no. Sai that isn’t –”
Rrriiipp!
My head whipped around at the sound. Miroku crouched and took the book away from the toddler before she could get her tiny fingers on another page. She peered up at him with a strikingly acute glare and reached for the satchel beside her to retrieve another. He snatch up the pouch before she could reach it, only then realizing that Kaori had found one of our visitor’s charcoal sticks and was coloring the floorboards with it.
He sighed in exasperation and plucked it from her gasp, earning a cute little shout of protest.
“And I cleaned the floor this afternoon too. How do they have so much energy?”
“Genes I suppose?” I replied absently, tickling Sai with my fingertips. The touch distracted her enough to allow me to retrieve the paper still crumpled in her fist. I tried my best to unwrinkled it, regretting that the page belonged to Francis’s sketchbook.
“I’m sorry about this. They’re too young to learn very many manners.”
“It’s alright,” he hesitated, accepting his bag from the monk. “I didn’t like that particular sketch anyway … Mm?”
His demeanor straightened as the man took a seat beside him, his hands skimming through the pages of the book he confiscated. We both watched Miroku with a hint of worry, wondering what he was up to. Finally he stilled on a page and brought a hand to cup his chin, a gesture I knew to be contemplative.
“Your style is quite remarkable. This hatching you do, is it a European trait?”
My eyebrows knitted at the word. Euro-wha?
“Y-yes – well, it’s a rendering technique. Most artwork is done in a finer quality with oil paint.”
Miroku was quiet again for a few pages, then pointed to something I couldn’t see and leaned toward the missionary,
“I like this one, but the proportion on her arm is off. See how you’ve skewed the shoulders?”
Francis blinked and nodded, “I’ll remember to fix it …” he sat patiently and waited for a chance to speak again, then finally voiced a question I myself was beginning to wonder,
“You have a critical eye, Lord monk. Are you trained in the arts as well?”
“Mostly brush work,” Miroku answered, his attention focused. “When I have spare ink and parchment after writing ofuda. Painting can sometimes be as calming as meditation.”
My voice hitched in my throat, wanting to know why I had never heard of this before.
How many secrets did Miroku have?
When supper had ended we stoked the fire and set arrangements for Francis in the main room. By the time we bade goodnight we both sported a sleeping infant tucked on our shoulders, the twins falling asleep soon after their tummies were full. We dressed them in their juban and tucked them in silently.
I listened for noise in the other room, checking that the foreign monk had settled in for the night, before shutting the shouji of our room and commenced undressing myself. When the collar of my white robe fell in place I darted expectant eyes at my husband, oblivious of my stare as he stripped down to his leggings as per usual.
“You didn’t tell me you could paint.”
“It never came up in conversation until now,” he recounted absently while folding his robes. He then turned to help me onto the futon, and frowned at my expression,
“What?”
I shook my head, letting out a sigh as my fingers combed my hair, “Sometimes I wish you would tell me things when the matter is not pressing. Why you feel the need to be illusive is beyond me.”
Honey eyes glanced up in time to see the confliction in his, and my hands stilled their task.
I watched as he walked over to his chest and began rummaging through its contents. He explained as he went along,
“Sango, I know you often doubt it but I am a humble man. It is against my nature to boast about my accomplishments – the same reason you stop singing to the children when you know someone is listening.”
I blushed and stared down at the covers. That was beside the point. Finally, after taking out nearly all the content of the chest, he withdrew a narrow wooden box I knew to be his old stationary set. He’d since attained a better one with a childproof lock, after an incident where he woke to find half the hut, as well as the two culprits, covered in ink.
He brought it over and sat beside me, removing the lid and delicately prying open a thinner latch beneath the stack of parchment.
“They’re pretty old,” he mumbled, as if discrediting himself, and handed a few sutra shaped pieces to me. The content of these papers were far from his usual calligraphy, however.
His brush strokes and gradation made the first scene clearly identifiable, and I smiled and held it closer to observe the detail,
“Was this at Mushin-sama’s temple?”
“Yes. Before I traveled and met InuYasha and Kagome-sama. I believed it was the last time I would see it. Thus, why I wanted to preserve the image.”
I looked over the wispy lines of the waterfall and stylized cliff side, astounded how such a small piece of paper could resemble the place so vividly. The next illustrated the zen garden beside the temple, and another depicting the Buddha stationed in the shrine room. There were places and buildings I had never seen, and I imagined he painted them on his journeys alone. I stopped on another familiar image and took a moment to examine,
“Kikyo’s grave?”
“Shortly after discovering her history with Onigumo, and the ultimate birth of Naraku. My mind was at unease.”
I thumbed the image a moment longer before glancing up at him, “You only paint when you’re upset?”
“You could say that. When meditation would not suffice, making these pieces helped distract me enough to regain my composure. They reminded me of what was important in life.”
The next showed a sunset and seemed to emphasize his words. I wished to see those brilliant colors he sought to capture, but washed ink could only replicate so much. Before I could turn to the next his hand stilled mine and I looked up in alarm.
“You might not want to continue farther,” he warned, and the peculiarity of embarrassment seemed to invade his gaze.
Curious I pried his hand away and turned to the next. My lips tugged into a shallow line. It was the taijiya village in shambles, the perspective evident in graves that vanished on the horizon. I turned to the next; Midoriko and the youkai. The next; the broken fort entrance. I wavered and lowered the stack of papers,
“… Why are there so many of these?”
Miroku rubbed the back of his head, his gaze elsewhere as he did so, “As you recall, we spent a long time waiting for you to recuperate at the taijiya village. I could paint without InuYasha barking about wasting daylight and the smell of ink. And … Well … The sorrow you held was very tangible. We all felt it.”
I said nothing of this, eyeing the mass of papers, until I dared go to the next. It was not a landscape like the rest, but a portrait. A very familiar portrait. Blushing I glanced over the scene, uncertain how exactly to respond,
“You … painted me sleeping?”
“Well if you were awake you would refuse. Probably strike me even,” he defended with a light laugh.
I had always suspected he watched over me at night all those years ago, but to see the proof had me blushing deeply. Clearing my throat I flipped to the next piece, only to discover I’d run full circle. Disappointed I looked up at him,
“That’s it?”
“Of this pile, yes.” He waited a moment to see if I caught onto the subtly of his message, but continued when I stared at him perplexedly,
“As you said, I painted when I was upset. But, after meeting you, I stopped because I found a new distraction. One that was far more beautiful and tangible than any painting I could hope to imagine.”
My blush thickened and he leaned closer, capturing my lips affectionately while taking the parchment from my hands. He dropped them beside the futon distractedly and laid me down, kissing me senseless as his hand moved to stroke my abdomen lovingly. I parted from him and kissed his jaw, then pulled the covers around us with a request on my lips.
“Anata?”
“Mm?”
“Promise me you’ll find new inspiration to paint. It’s far too good a talent to waste.”
“I promise,” he responded and cuddled himself against my back, hands gliding protectively over our unborn son. He would not tell me that he had found new inspiration – that he had dozens more of these papers hidden amongst his possessions. Maybe he wanted it that way. They were outlets to his emotion, for self reflection alone. In this exception, I would allow him his secrets. At least until he was comfortable sharing them with me.
-*-
“He’s gone?”
Miroku yawned tiredly, trudging into the room behind me.
“Apparently so,” I sighed. The man had not even said goodbye. Taking up the blankets I stood, curious as a folded page fell out from the cloth.
“What does it say?” I asked my husband, collecting laundry for the day’s wash.
Miroku bent to retrieve the note and skimmed it, his fist caught around something that nearly fell from the letter upon opening it,
“He says the devil’s feline woke him up before dawn and that was probably for the best. He thanks you for your hospitality - … apparently we’re the first home to offer him kindness since his arrival. As a token he wants you to have this … Maybe you’ll … Hnnn.”
“What?”
“’Maybe you’ll see the error of your ways and repent’. He’s trying to convert you, dear.”
I looked up in time to see Miroku unravel the gift – wooden beads with the same cross the missionary wore around his neck. I frowned and shook my head,
“I swear that man didn’t listen to a thing I said.”
“What did you say?”
“…” taking up the laundry bucket I passed him in the doorway, “Nothing of importance … Maybe we should give that thing to Akari-sama. At least she’ll have use for it. Strange man …”
Miroku nodded, coiling the rosary back up and into his pocket.
“We must give him credit, love. If we were to preach our ways in his village of stone, would they not consider us strange?”
“I suppose you’re right.”
Thinking about the etched images of colossal buildings I shuttered, “This is a whole different world for him … hopefully the gods will take pity on his naivety … Nn?”
My brow quirked when the houshi chuckled and patted my head. He would not answer why.
I guess we all were a little stuck in our ways.
-*-
(End unnecessarily long entry)
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