Читать книгу Hawaii End of the Rainbow - Kazuo Miyamoto - Страница 17

ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD, Napoleon Bonaparte had risen and fallen and Europe was in the grip of a fierce struggle for a realignment of powers. In the New World an infant nation was in the throes of putting her house in order over states rights and the burning question of human rights to freedom. What about the hermit kingdom of Cipangu, the fabled land of Marco Polo?

In the fertile plains of Kumamoto in Kyushu, southwest Japan, Torao Murayama's ancestors had lived as sturdy peasants, tilling the rice patches in the rich delta regions of the Midorikawa. On the hilly sides of the Peninsula of Uto they had their village homes for countless generations. The nation was in hermetic seclusion and everything seemed to be at a standstill. After three centuries of continued peace, the warrior caste had lost its original initiative, physical prowess, endurance, and every martial aptitude that had set this class apart and had permitted its ascendancy over the peasantry in the remote past in feudal history.

In the main, long accustomed to life of leisure and bureaucratic office work, the samurai had degenerated into peaceful citizens delving in the gentler arts of music, tea ceremony, and dancing, rather than pursuing the Spartan ways of their fierce ancestors who had lived by the sword. The hegemony of the Tokugawa Shogunate over the island empire was numbered. Revolutionary sentiment was strong among the lower stratum samurai who were destined to continue in their downtrodden life should the status quo continue. Young blood clamored for the restoration of the emperor to his rightful office as sovereign in fact, as well as in name. It was a convenient rallying point for the dissidents. It had mass appeal, especially to the underprivileged artisans and peasants. Thoughtful shogunate officials saw the words of doom concerning their future written on the wall.

The external pressure of the Russians from the north, iron fleets of America, England, and the Dutch pounding at the gates of the southern seaports, hastened the downfall of the then existing government by climaxing the struggle of the conflicting forces within the country. But this foreign threat merely hastened the end of the feudal system, for inevitable doom was imminent. Attempts to save the system were naturally made, but the core of the feudal system was like a termite-eaten edifice. Leaders saw through the danger and attempting to reenforce the structure at the eleventh hour, tried blood transfusion in its literal sense. Infusing new blood of sturdy young peasant sons of superior stock was the only solution to prolong the failing tide of destiny.

Thus, Lord Hosokawa of Kumamoto looked among his peasantry for young, dependable soldier material. Edicts were promulgated to recruit second and third sons of farmers and artisans who wished to seek advancement in life in the profession of arms. It was to be a lifelong job with prospects of attaining rank of the samurai and privileges appertaining to it. It was a tremendous opportunity for those who qualified. Examinations as to physical, mental, and moral stamina were most rigid. To have passed this obstacle was an attainment of incalculable merit, for it meant "passing" over into a higher, more respected caste than the one they had been born into. Since the law of primogeniture prevailed and all or most property holdings passed to the eldest male child, the lot of the second and other sons was not enviable. Only in wealthier families did they have any chance for a decent existence. The best they could do was to become adopted into childless families or marry into families blessed only with girl offsprings. But the future prospects of the man married by such an arrangement was not always smooth sailing. A hen-pecked husband is not a happy situation in any community, and a wife with a large dowry was apt to "wear the pants in the family." There was a saying therefore: "If you have three pints of rice polishings to your name, never become an adopted son."

These volunteer soldiers were, therefore, the pick of the land. The rejuvenation of the governing class was thus belatedly attempted. Sadaki Mayeda was among these and by his knack of getting along with people he was soon promoted to the rank of the present-day sergeant and was stationed at Kyoto when the restoration of the emperor came. Japan was split into two camps on the question of opening its country to foreign commerce. The Tokugawa group was willy-nilly forced to accede to the demands of the foreign powers, especially to Commodore Perry. The group that rallied around the emperor saw the opportunity to overthrow the shogunate and restore the emperor to his rightful place on the throne. This latter group was against anything that the Tokugawa Shogunate proposed to do. The Hosokawa clan was pro-Tokugawa but did not get involved in the bloody flare-ups near the suburbs of the Capital when the opposing forces clashed at Toba and Fushimi. So Sadaki did not get into actual battle but was awarded a crest-emblazoned sword by Lord Hosokawa for meritorious service.

Soon the restoration became a fact, following the resignation of the shogun, and everybody in Japan became equal before the law. The caste system dividing the masses into samurai, farmers, artisans, and merchants was abolished and every avenue of professional or vocational advancement was opened to the ambitious and industrious. But the sudden release of an enormous number of samurai from the security of lifelong tenure and assurance of livelihood, created a tremendous social problem. As a professional soldier and retainer of a feudal lord, the life of a samurai was easy as long as he was loyal and his good faith reciprocated by the master. He would be fed and his descendants looked after by the daimyo.

This convenient arrangement was terminated and a new order prevailed. Each had to shift for himself in competition with men of other classes who were independent, diligent, and self-reliant. When the abolition of the feudal system took effect, the lords opened up their vaults and produced the reserve funds that had been stored to be used in case of emergencies and wars. Out of these monies a lump sum was distributed among the retainers so that their immediate needs might be taken care of. As is usually the case in these circumstances, the unscrupulous hatched out wild investment schemes with prospects of easy, fat returns. Gullibly, the samurai fell victim to these vultures and many lost their cash and government bonds that had been given them by their erstwhile lords and new government respectively.

The new government had issued bonds to the samurai to help them adjust to the sudden change in livelihood. Untrained in earning money, and brought up with the philosophy that even to touch money was disdainful, it was not long before many were reduced to a pitiful lot. Too proud either to work or to beg, the best they could do was to enter the police force or to join the new Westernized army in which they gradually adjusted their mode of thinking to the new era, but the aged and past middle age group suffered most with the advent of the restoration.

Sadaki Mayeda was among these retainers who had lost the promise of the future. He had to return either to farming or carpentry. In the meantime, he had married a daughter of a samurai who had seen in this sturdy son of the soil a caliber of manhood that could not be found in sons of hereditary warriors. This marriage was a tremendous boost to Sadaki's prestige in the days of feudal bigotry, but would be a handicap after the restoration if his bride were not adaptable to the new era. They went to live with his elder brother, a farmer, but the lot of a second son, especially burdened with a wife and son, was not a happy one.

The burgomaster, the shoya of the village, one day accosted Sadaki who was helping his brother on the farm. "You are working pretty hard. That, I can see by your sweat-soaked clothes. Have you got used to farmwork?"

"Yes. I am now used to working in the fields. Anyway I was born a farmer and it is merely picking up things I left ten years ago before I joined the forces of the Lord of Uto."

"Well it is good to see you content with your work. Many of your friends have joined the police, but many have been forced to steal and commit crimes for which they are caught and brought to trial by their erstwhile friends. I am glad to see that you are happy with the lot of a farmer. But we must think of you as an independent farmer and not as a dependent of your brother. I am thinking of old Mosaku. He is getting along in years and soon will not be able to tend to his crops. His acreage is among the best and there is a good balance between fields for rice and that of the dry crops of sweet potatoes and vegetables. What do you think about becoming an adopted son, yoshi. Since you are married and have a son, your case will be a fufuyoshi. Personally, I think it is a very good move if you can make up your mind to do it."

"I have never thought much about the role of an adopted son. I shall have to talk it over with my wife and brother. But since my return I heard that old Mosaku had two adopted sons already. What became of them?"

"Well, Mosaku is quite a slave driver. His holdings have been accumulated by hard work and self-denial, even to the point of miserliness. He drove the two young men too hard and they simply could not take it. But I am betting on you. You ought to be able to make the grade."

Mosaku was famous for being a very hard man to get along with. Bent with life-long toil in the rice patches, his face was wrinkled and sunburnt. He was like thousands of peasants with no distinguishing peculiarity. There was a hardness and slyness in his assumed humility before authority, but ready to break into a fury when there was no retaliation. To his wife ten children were born, but all died in either infancy or early childhood. This was a calamity. The ancient house had to have a successor, and they were getting old. At his deathbed, there must be someone to offer the last cup of water to speed him on to the nether world. The ancestors' graves must be tended and their souls at the time of bon, the monthly and annual day of demise, must be properly observed with the lighting of candles and adornment of the shrine with flowers.

On the 3rd, 7th, 13th, 20th, and 33rd anniversary, priests had to be summoned and sutras chanted. Mosaku had his own soul to be looked after as well as to answer to the reproaches of his ancestors if he did not leave someone to do the proper things after he was gone.

Therefore, when he became certain that the procreating days were over for his wife, he looked about for some suitable young couple that might be prevailed upon to come and live with them to carry on after his days should come to an end. It was not hard to find a man willing to accept the proposition because the acreage he cultivated was better than the average in the locality, but to endure the exacting Mosaku was a different matter.

The first young man did not last a year. Another tried to be amiable to the old man in order to become master of the farm and property, because the wiry man could not live forever, but he too could not survive the test. It was this that Sadaki faced. But people did not laugh. They said that if Sadaki could not please the old miser, there was no one that could ever suit him. He was known to his fellow villagers as being patient and good natured, and a good mixer. The sterner part of his character that had enabled him to rise swiftly in the army was allowed to remain hidden under the mask of his smiling exterior.

Sadaki was twenty-four and of average height. His carriage was straight for he had gotten away from stooping farm work and had practiced the feat of arms such as fencing and jujitsu. Cleanly shaven and composed, he looked different from other peasants even when he was dressed for the field.

The arrangement for adoption into the Mosaku Murayama family was speedily concluded. Sadaki decided to make this arrangement endure. Under no harsh or unreasonable treatment would he show his temper. He would be the epitome of good manners and placate the ire of old Mosaku. The arrangement was not easy, especially for his bride who had been used to expect respect from her foster parents. But she knew too well that the present forbearance was for their future security, and especially for their little son Torao.

"Mosaku-san, it is a nice day."

"Shoya-san, good day to you. I am deeply indebted to you again and again for all the trouble you went through for my yoshi arrangement."

"Well, how is the young man getting used to the work as a farmer?"

"He is all right. He works hard and does not show any disrespect. He is a good son. My daughter-in-law is above reproach. I am satisfied and happy. I feel secure knowing that my ancestors' souls will be dutifully served and on their anniversaries priests will be summoned to have sutras read."

Sadaki, try as he might, could not become a true farmer. He lacked the peculiar inborn trait and sagacity that makes one a good, successful farmer and the next door neighbor a failure, although the two might be equally industrious. After a few years, the old man stopped trying to teach him and doted on the little grandchild. He concluded that perhaps the only way to get a good farmer out of the trio was to educate this little boy in the art of tilling the soil when he was young.

But the little one received an altogether different training from his mother, for she insisted that he talk and act the little gentlemen that a samurai son was expected to do. Unlike the sons of regular farmers, Torao had to strictly observe at home the salutations of morning, night, coming and going, with all the etiquette attending these greetings. Due respect in speech and mannerism had to be shown his elders, in contrast to the free, easy going approach his playmates paid the village elders. Soon there was a brother born and later a sister.

With the restoration of the emperor came different improvements to raise the status of the undertrodden peasantry. Universal education was one. A grammar school was erected in the village next to the burgomaster's house. Textbooks were not adequate and the old classics of Chinese derivation were taught to instill the age old maxims and aphorisms that every educated person was expected to know by heart.

Every morning before he started out to school, Torao was given a cup of rice wine by his grandfather. To be a man, one had to take his liquor well and that training might as well start early. It was a peculiar notion from later standards, but in the eyes of the Japanese, heated rice wine is usually weak in alcoholic content, and was not devastating in its effect like the distilled spirits of the West. Besides, it was used in all the religious and formal rituals. Only on the departure for an undertaking that presages sudden or certin death is wine substituted by plain water. Plain water exchanged in drinking connotes death and a willingness to enter into such a contract. Rice wine is drunk in Japan by the men just like wine is freely taken in France or in Italy. Thus, Torao was trained to drink from his childhood, but this training was destined to cause heartbreak and loneliness in his later years.

About once a month Mrs. Murayama used to take her children to Amizu where her ancestral home was situated and proceed to the hill in back of the village where the family cemetery was located. The purpose behind this monthly pilgrimage was to impress upon her youngsters that though the world she had been brought up into had changed and was replaced by a more enlightened era under the direct rule of the emperor, it was still important to learn and feel proud of their lineage.

Not far from her father's home was a trail that led up to the hill. The approach to the cemetery was well kept for it led to the Fudo Temple which was cared for by the village but had originally been built by her own direct ancestors as a family shrine of worship and piety. It was a tiny structure built along the traditional lines of temples, but had a leading to it. In other words, it was a mixture of Shinto and Buddhist worship and had been cared for as the village guardian deity since the temple had been adopted by the village as a whole.

Fudo-san, of Indian origin, was looked upon in Japan as a special benefactor against all catastrophies and calamities and as a guardian for the villagers. It was perhaps an appropriate god. From the torii to the temple there was a rather steep climb with steps cut into the slope and buttressed by wooden reenforcements. The approach was always kept free of weeds and swept clean. Cherry trees lined the road.

Her father had been the burgomaster of this region for generations. This class was peculiar in that although farmers, they were allowed the distinction of having a surname and privileged to wear two swords like any samurai. Lately too much drinking and inattention to details of farming had made the fortune of the family rather precarious. Just as the old order was giving way to the new, so were many established families losing out to the more aggressive element that was riding with the new tide of social and economic progress. This temple was merely a relic and reminder of her family's past splendor.

From this building the trail led up to tall weeds that bloomed in the fall and were known as the "seven shrubs of autumn," to the open area where graveyards were arranged in little compounds for different families. Perched on the side of this hill it commanded the magnificent view of the large Ariake Sea that lay quietly between the main island and the Shimabara Peninsula.

The Unzen Mountains towered majestically across the Sea, the summits usually covered by a veil of clouds. The tip of the Shimabara Peninsula, on which Unzen was located, seemed to merge with the large islands of the Amakusa group to the left. The silvery line in the plain lying in front was the Midorikawa River and the shallow shore receded for miles with the ebb of the tide, leaving sandy stretches as far as the eye could see. The mountain rising abruptly from the other end of the vast Higo Plain was the Kimbosan, behind which the active volcano Aso sent up its smoky column on quiet, windless days. Just in front of them, not more than two miles away, placed like a cone on the bay shore, was the hill of Sumiyoshi surrounded by a fishing village.

The village cemetery overlooked this beautiful, majestic landscape. Among the tombstones, the most conspicuous was her ancestors'; especially the stone of the ancestor about two hundred and fifty years dead who had contributed most to the villagers while he was alive. A stone monument over his grave towered above the other markers and under his posthumous Buddhist name there were fifty-seven names of his disciples engraved upon the face of the rock: those that would have followed him into batde and died for him if necessary.

When they arrived, panting, they stopped for a short while and became fascinated with the view that unfolded before them. Mrs. Murayama would have the children pull weeds and tidy the immediate neighborhood of the tomb, change the water in the vases that were placed in front of it, and place new greens and flowers that they brought from home. Then, lighting a bundle of incense, each child was given several to stick into the soft ground beside the vase. As the thin lines of smoke rose from individual incense sticks to merge higher up, Mrs. Murayama assumed a squatting position and with hands brought together before her face, led her three children in the intonation of praise of the Buddha, "Namu, Amida Butsu, Namu, Amida Butsu." Each child held a tiny rosary in his hand and squatting alongside his mother would silently bow following her every move from the corner of his eye and repeat the "Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida Butsu." Then she would get up and pour water over the moss-covered tombstone.

She did not know why this was done but by so doing felt that the right thing was done for the departed ones. Perhaps the departed one was thirsty. Anyway, water was pure and it was an act of purification. Tradition and custom usually had some rational purpose when analyzed. After this was done they proceeded to clean the neighboring graveyards. Some graves had no one to care for them; the line had died out or the survivor had moved away. They felt so much better after this was done. It made them feel that they were not only doing something for their own, but also serving others.

"This world," Mrs. Murayama would tell her children, "is not to be lived in alone selfishly. One must be willing to help others whether the act is noted or not. The time may come when you will be the recipient of a kindly act. If you do good to others, it is natural that others will be good to you. But you must not expect reward. It makes one feel good to be doing good."

About the time of the Bon Festival, care of the family graves took on additional significance. During late August or early September when the moon was full and most beautiful, the departed spirits were supposed to return to their former mortal abodes. It was a season when spirits hovered in the atmosphere. Even the dead could not stay quiet. The lure of the lunar beauty was overwhelming. Every household which had a case of death in the preceding year would receive presents of fancy paper lanterns from friends. The departed spirit on its first return from the nether world would find that his erstwhile mortal friends remembered him on this occasion. The mistress of the house had the house ready for the return of the departed souls. Every nook and corner of the house had to be spick and span; the graveyard weeded and cleanly swept. The room in which the Buddhist altar was placed was decorated with fancy lanterns, and before the image of Buddha flowers, fresh greens, and the produce of the fields were placed. There would be carrots, eggplants, and cucumbers piled high on plates. Candies, cakes, and the special favorite of the recently departed one were placed especially for him. A pair of huge lanterns bearing the family crest were hung from the ceiling in front of the altar. At the graveyard similar lanterns were hung and were lighted nightly during the Bon period. The cemetery put on a festive air. No colored flower was used to decorate the graveyard. All plants were branches of green foliage.

The festival began on the thirteenth of the lunar month. Next to New Year's day, this day was of extreme importance to the common people. On this night, the boys that were apprenticed to farms, shops, or mercantile houses, or the girls that served as maids in other homes, returned home and all proceeded together to the family grave attired in their best. They would go to pay reverence to the ancestral spirits. In the Murayama family, Shinshu was the family religion and Bon was merely an occasion to think of their ancestors. The living were to be aware of the vicissitudes of life and the ever-present mercy of Buddha that responded to those who sought salvation.

In other sects of Buddhism, this procession signified the welcoming home of spirits that were loose in their native countryside. This was known as "The welcoming of the sacred spirits" to the family, and for three days the departed ones were to live with their mortal relatives. This occasion was not a period of mourning and so there was no grieving. To the contrary, there was a certain element of rejoicing in the reunion and although there would be no actual merrymaking, people did not deny themselves luxuries or good food. Meat and fish tabooed at mourning would be partaken freely. In good Buddhist families the elder members usually could recite sutras and there would be recitation of these as usual in the presence of the assembled family, but no special effort was made to increase the religious services by the invitation of the priest.

When there was a recent death or "first bon" for the family, friends and relatives usually came to the house in order to lighten the sorrow of the family. For three days the family would be joined in spirit by the departed ones and on the night of the sixteenth day the spirits were to return where they came from. The ritual of "god-speeding the spirits" was performed. Where there was a creek or river a good-sized boat was fashioned out of straw. This was loaded with the seasonal produce that had adorned the altar. At a signal, all the assembled straw boats had their candles lighted simultaneously, and they were let loose to float down the river. The little fleet silently glided and eventually, one by one, disappeared to the bottom. The scene was eerie and mystic.

In regions where there was no river or stream, a horse would be constructed out of an eggplant or cucumber and the rest of the sweets and vegetables would be piled on his back. The horse would then be set down at the turn of the road and a safe journey to the nether world wished for him. In this manner the annual visit of the souls to earthly brethren was made. The annual festival in which the living and the dead both had a part was over, and people went back to the dreary routine of daily life.

The dead, therefore, were not considered in the fearful way that is the case in other countries. On the contrary, a sense of familiarity and the sensation of proximity of the departed ones was fostered in the minds of the children so that the conception of fearful spirits would be foreign to upbringing. It was natural that all should wend their way to ancestral graves to report anything momentous that was to be undertaken in the family, whether joyful or sad, or report in person when they returned from distant lands after a long journey.

As Torao grew up, he joined the young men's club. In a community where elders have absolute say, and age is a factor to be reckoned with, the young people naturally got together socially to relax. Leaders encouraged such a gathering to prevent delinquency among the teenagers. Wholesome fun was a natural development. The club had its meetings at night and played their pranks on the younger and newly initiated members. Typical was the event that occurred on the night of December 14, to test the nerve of the boys and have fun at their expense.

The leader rose and faced the younger boys. "Three hundred years ago, the forty-seven samurai of Akoh went out in the midst of the night to chop Kira Kozuke's head off. Kira was the enemy of their dead lord. Tonight you will be asked to show that you too are not afraid. You will not be asked to take any villain's head, but as a sign of your courage, you will be asked to bring back certain articles or erect a flag at some spot. Are you afraid of the dark? You, Kosuke?"

"No. Of course not."

"Have you been to the shrine on the Todoroki Road? You will bring back the gohei that is on the altar. I heard that there is a pair of old foxes living in the bushes in back of the old building, and they sometimes come out at night in the guise of a young woman. You, Yosaku!"

"Yes."

"You are to go to the cemetery, to the grave of the newly dead and buried Tanaka woman. Bring back the branch of greens that is in the vase and plant this flag in the new mound. Goichi, you will proceed to the jizo-san near the river. Leave this red flag on the steps of the jizo. You must take the road that goes under the tree from which the crazy old woman Omoyo hanged herself two years ago."

As the lone boys proceeded, tremulously whistling to hide their inner quavering, there would be a rustling noise in the nearby bushes or eerie hooting or howling from the roadside. A special detachment of older boys were there to frighten the youngsters. After the boys returned to the clubhouse, a check would be made to ascertain whether the marker was actually stuck where it was intended. Then there would be a frugal feast on homemade noodles to emulate the example of the forty-seven samurai who had similarly filled their stomachs before they started out on their memorable expedition of vendetta.

Torao was brought up in such an atmosphere. He was taught to revere his ancestors, to take pride in his heritage, and to be brave. Next to loyalty to the emperor, parents came first in the consideration of his everyday conduct. Filial piety was stressed with the utmost emphasis, and he loved his mother above everybody else. But there was an epidemic of dysentery in the countryside and his mother fell ill. Within a short time she was laid at rest not within the family graveyard, but in an isolated spot because the disease was contagious. The ignorant bureaucrats thought it necessary to quarantine the corpse, lest it might contaminate the graves of the non-infectious dead. Western ideas of sanitation and epidemic diseases had just been adopted and in the knowing application of these sciences, the health official was considered to be enlightened and modern.

To the three children it was like the end of the world. There were no more pleasant sorties than those to their ancestral home at Amizu village, and there was no more delightful storytelling than the many folk tales and ancient historical epics handed down among the villagers. The effect on Sadaki was equally great. By that time old Mosaku and his wife had died and Sadaki was master of the Murayama holdings.

Bereft of a helpmate, the farm was hard to maintain without some hired help, but Sadaki was not in a position to pay for help. The most natural thing for him to do was to marry again. In any country, to get married to a widower with three children was not the best marriage that a girl could wish to make, and the man himself did not look for his ideal of womanhood. If she were good enough to take care of his family and be good to the motherless children, then he must consider himself lucky.

The woman he took for his second wife came from typical farmer stock. She had been taught the art of farming but knew little or nothing of the finer training that a girl should have had. She worked hard from morning till night. That she had remained single until past twenty-five showed that she had no physical charm and had not been overlooked by the village swains without reason. For Sadaki it was fortunate that she was such a proficient worker as he was a poor farmer himself and now could rely on her better judgment in the choice and management of the crops.

But the children could not forget their deceased mother and could not make themselves like this intruder. Even in their immature minds—perhaps more so because of their simplicity—they would compare the merits of the two women. Their feeling could not remain hidden from her and she resented their disrespect. The atmosphere in the home was continuously strained and life was miserable for all.

Torao, now fifteen, was cognizant of the open breach and tried to repair it by being nice to her, but the gap was unbridgeable and finally he gave it up and openly rebelled. Time and again he would take his sister Osada to Amizu, their maternal grandfather's home, and stay for weeks: until someone came for them. Their maternal relatives naturally took sides and the talk was lively at Amizu. Their ancient family pride asserted itself. The children felt the satisfaction of basking in the limelight of a controversy in which they were the chief participants.

Even to the illiterate woman, the conduct of these step-children was irritating, for she had to think of her reputation. This outward flaunting of her authority did not win sympathy for her and did not improve her station among the village women, who had a high regard for the deceased wife and were naturally semi-hostile to her even under the best arrangement. Gossipy women spread rumors which, in a distorted form, came back to her. Chagrined, she would complain to her husband who naturally did nothing, being the patient man he was, and kept the mental agony a man had to endure under these circumstances all to himself: stoically. Thus the only avenue left to her to dispel her pentup feelings was to pick on and be harsh to Osada, the youngest daughter.

The little girl, now grown to adolescence, was worked to death. In a farmer's life the lot of the women is not easy and with a slave-driver at her heels, there would never be a day when her work would be finished. Her only comfort was the understanding help that was rendered by Torao, and as a result their relationship became all the more intimate.

It was no wonder, therefore, that we find Torao volunteering to labor in the canefields of Hawaii when immigration companies recruited laborers. His life had become unbearable. His father, understanding his feeling, did not stand in his way. Only Osada was very grieved and wept most pitifully. In view of what happened, many old women stated years later that somehow Osada must have felt that the parting was going to be the last for her and her brother on this earth, for she was destined to die two years later from an epidemic of dysentery.