Anderson, Poul - A Shrine for Lost Children

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POUL ANDERSON

THE SHRINE FOR LOST CHILDREN

Kamakura

SHE HAD SEEN HIM A hundred times or more -- who has not? -- in travel books, on

postcards, as a miniature copy in San Francisco's Japanese Tea Garden. But when

he sat before her, seeming to fill half the sky with the mightiness of his

peace, she knew that she had never known him.

Her days of fine weather had turned cold, with a sharp little wind. The Great

Buddha loomed green-bronze against a gray overcast. Maybe that helped the

feeling to well up in her that nothing else mattered, not the low buildings and

autumnal trees around nor the other visitors chattering and photographing nor

even her own life. Or rather, said a bewildered thought, everything mattered

equally, everything was the same, for Amida was in all that was.

From more than six tall man-heights he looked outward and slightly downward, as

he had done for more than seven centuries. The smile of compassion barely

touched the serenity of his face. His robes flowed to hands lying curled on his

lap, the attitude of meditation, as if so bared to the truth that they had no

need to grip it, so strong that they would not ever need to wield their power.

She was not religious-- had not been unless as a small girl, sometimes in the

dark crying out to Jesus. She only stayed for a while that she did not measure,

drawing a kind of silence around herself, gazing, half lost in the presence.

She had seen much beauty thus far, and much charm, and something of a foreign

history and the soul within it. Too much too fast, really; it blurred together

in her mind. A few things stood clearly forth -- the Temple of the Golden

Pavilion mirrored in still water; children taken in bright traditional clothes

to their festival at Sumiyoshi Taisha; the Sengakuji like an island in Tokyo's

sea of cars and high-rises, forever remembering the Forty-Seven Ronin and their

stark story. The image here had immediately joined the foremost.

Are you feeling what I feel, Jenny.* she wondered. Have you been sharing the

journey.* Has it helped you a little bit.*

She did not know whether she feared or hoped for an answer. There had been

nothing since that last day and night before she left home.

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file:///H|/eMule/Incoming/TXT%20-%20Poul%20Anderson%20-%20The%20Shrine%20for%20Lost%20Children.txt

Berkeley

It happened without warning, as it often did. They were taking a coffee break in

the office, and Alice Holt mentioned acquiring a kitten. "I think we'll call her

Jennyanydots."

Here I am. What can we do?

She lurched at the suddenness of it. The Styrofoam cup almost dropped from her

hand. Some of the coffee splashed down onto the floor.

No, Jenny! Not here. Later.

But you called. I heard.

That wasn't me. We can't do anything here. Wait for me.

You're always waiting for me, she thought.

But I'm lonesome.

I know. Frantically: Be good and wait. We'll do things later, I promise. I'll

sing you songs, I'll tell you a wonderful story, but I can't right now where I

am.

This isn't a nice place?

It is, it is. It's just different from home. We both have to wait a while. I'll

call you as soon as I can. I promise. Please.

A hand closed on her arm. "Are you all right?" asked Joe Bowers.

"Yes," she whispered. "Something surprised me, that's all. I'll clean up the

mess."

"No, I think you better sit down," said Alice. "We'll take care of it. Don't

worry, dear."

Their looks followed her as she -- "groped" was the word -- to her desk, fell

into the chair, and drew long slow breaths. Vaguely, she sensed their attention

still upon her. She could well imagine their thoughts. This wasn't the first

time, in the few months of her employment, they'd seen her stare at what seemed

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