He, poor man, had been drowned in a flood when he was still young. And it had taken her years to get him prayed out of Buddhist purgatory. Finally, she had grown tired of it, for she had the responsibilities of caring for a child and maintaining the land. So when the priest said persuasively, “Another ten pieces of silver and he’ll be out entirely,” she asked, “What does he have in there yet?”
“Only his right hand,” the priest said, encouraging her.
Well then, her patience broke. Ten dollars! It would feed them for the winter. Besides, she had had to hire labor for her share of repairing the dike so there would be no more floods.
“If it’s only one hand, he can pull himself out,” she said firmly.
She often wondered if he had, poor silly fellow. Like it or not, she often had thought gloomily in the night that he was still lying there, waiting for her to do something about it. That was the sort of man he was. Well, someday, perhaps, when Little Pig’s wife had had the first baby safely and she had a little extra money, she might go back to get him out of purgatory. There was no real hurry, though.
“Grandmother, you must go in, “Little Pig’s wife’s soft voice said. “There is a mist rising from the river, now that the sun is gone.”