The young priest stood on the steps of the old temple that had been his home, holding his staff in one hand. He was only about thirteen, and some might have thought it awfully early to send him out on his own, but Mushin had insisted.
“You need to find your own way,” he had said. Miroku suspected that it was more that he was becoming too much of a bother. It cost money to feed two people, not to mention to provide Mushin with a continuous supply of sake.
“I don’t need him anyway,” Miroku muttered defensively as he started walking away from Mushin’s temple, determined not to look back. “I can survive on my own. I don’t need anyone.” He glanced at his bound right hand. Well, maybe someone... preferably someone pretty.
The young monk kept walking even after the sun had set, his eyes on the stars.
“I’ll show that old monk,” the boy vowed. “One day, I’ll destroy Naraku and then he’ll see that I’m not a reckless fool. I’ll avenge oyaji and jii-sama and then--and then I’ll be normal, like everyone else.” He clenched his fist, unaware that his voice was cracking. “I’ll be normal.”
The boy shivered in the night air. He had often wished that he could be someone else. After his father’s death he remembered sitting on a ledge, staring out the window and pretending that he was someone strong. Someone powerful and independent. Someone whose powers could defeat Naraku. He remembered the way he had tried to convince himself that he would not die in the same horrible manner as his father.
Even at that young age, Miroku was a master at convincing himself of things that he knew in his heart were lies.
The stars had been out for quite some time when Miroku finally stopped walking and set up camp near a lake whose waters reflected silver in the moonlight. Miroku bent to take a drink and looked at his reflection in the pool. It seemed as if he was covered with a ghostly glow.
“I am strong,” he told his reflection. “I--I can surpass oyaji and jii-sama. I can find Naraku and kill him and then--and then--” He paused, letting the unspoken thought hang in the air. And then I won’t have to die.
He shook his head vehemently and plunged his staff into the water, shattering his reflection as if it were glass.
“I won’t die!” he cried out, feeling tears well up and hating himself for his weakness. The boy took a deep breath and repeated in calm, almost indifferent tones, “I won’t die.”
There was always that one fear. No matter what he told himself, no matter where he hid, Miroku knew that that fear would always follow him. The fear that each day he awoke would be the day he died. Some nights, especially right after his father’s death, he was afraid to sleep, thinking that if he stayed awake he might live forever. Not wanting to admit that his death remained a part of him every day.
He knew that he was being a coward about it. Mushin had often reproved young Miroku for acting like such a baby. The boy had been reminded for as long as he could remember that his father had faced death bravely. He had not cried when the time came.
“Were you afraid, too, oyaji?” Miroku whispered to the sky, clutching his cursed hand tightly to his chest. “I remember....I remember you smiled at me before you--before you left. But there was something else in your eyes...”
The next morning Miroku set off again, full of self-loathing for his weakness the night before. What a fool he was, crying and whimpering and talking to ghosts. A strange thought entered his mind, a thought quickly pushed away. I walk with ghosts...
“Stop that,” he told himself sternly. “Why do you think these things? Being a baby about it won’t keep you alive any longer.” Still, he couldn’t help but look into the blue clouds and think desperately,
I don’t want to die. I want to live, to dream. I want to fall in love with someone. I want to make friends and keep them. I don’t want to die before I’ve had a chance to live.
“Did you dream too, oyaji?” Miroku whispered, speaking once more to the ghost of his father. “And you, jii-sama? Did it ever occur to you that I might have some as well? I don’t want to give my life up without fighting for what I believe in.” He closed his eyes.
“We’ve all been cowards,” Miroku muttered, no longer paying any attention to where he was going. “Naraku’s been playing with my life since I was born. My entire life has been centered around my death.” His face twisted in disgust. “Why did you let this happen, oyaji? What was the point in bringing me into this world just to die within a few years?”
Because, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered, he had something to believe in too. He believed in you.
That thought stopped the monk in his tracks for a few moments. He gazed at the landscape around him, at the trees, the grass, the flowers, as if they might hold the answer he sought.
“He had hope,” Miroku said, very softly. “He had hope that I would avenge him. And what would he think of me now, whining about how I don’t want to die?” He shook his head vehemently. “I’m the last. I’m going to make sure that I’m the last one who has to live like this.” The boy cast his eyes up to the sky. “I may not get to see my dreams come true, but my son will. I won’t make him suffer what I have to suffer. So when I fight Naraku...I’ll win!”
With new purpose in his step, Miroku continued to walk down the road towards his unknown future.