by Lian Hearn
“Maybe she was taught too harshly,” he said. “I’ve often wondered what we do to our children. In many ways it was a relief to have none.”
“When you’re a child, it’s like a game,” Shizuka said. “I remember being proud of the skills I had, and despising other people for not having them. You don’t question the way you’re brought up; that’s just how it is.”
“You are talented; you are the Muto masters’ niece and grandchild. Being Kuroda, in the middle, is not so easy. And if you don’t have natural talents, the training is very difficult.” He paused and went on quietly: “Possibly she was too sensitive. No upbringing can completely eradicate a person’s essential character.”
“I wonder. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Well, it was a long time ago. But it certainly made me question a lot of things I’d been taught. Not that I tell most people. When you’re part of the Tribe, you’re obedient, that’s all there is to it.”
“Maybe if Takeo had been brought up in the Tribe, he would have learned obedience as we all do,” Shizuka said, as if thinking aloud. “He hated being told what to do and he hated being confined. So, what do the Kikuta do? Give him to Akio for training as if he were a two-year-old. They’ve only themselves to blame for his defection. Shigeru knew how to handle him from the start. He won his loyalty. Takeo would have done anything for him.”
As we all would have done, she found herself thinking, and tried to suppress it. She had many secrets concerning Lord Shigeru that only the dead knew, and she was afraid Kondo might discern them.
“What Takeo did was quite considerable,” Kondo said, “if you believe all the stories.”
“Are you impressed, Kondo? I thought nothing impressed you!”
“Everyone admires courage,” he replied. “And, like Takeo, I am also of mixed blood, from both the Tribe and the clans. I was raised by the Tribe until I was twelve and then I became a warrior on the surface, a spy beneath. Maybe I understand something of the conflict he must have gone through.”
They walked in silence for a while, then he said, “Anyway, I think you know I am impressed by you.”
He was less guarded today, more open in his feeling toward her. She was acutely aware of his desire and, once she had pitied him, less able to resist it. As Arai’s mistress or as Kaede’s maid, she had had status and the protection status gave her, but now nothing was left to her apart from her own skills and this man who had saved her life and would not make a bad husband. There was no reason not to sleep with him, so after they stopped to eat, around noon, she let him lead her into the shade of the trees. The smell of pine needles and cedar was all around them, the sun warm, the breeze soft. A distant waterfall splashed, muted. Everything spoke of new life and spring. His lovemaking was not as bad as she’d feared, though he was rough and quick compared to Ishida.
Shizuka thought, If this is what is to be, I must make the best of it.
And then she thought, What’s happened to me? Have I suddenly got old? A year ago I would have given a man like Kondo short shrift, but a year ago I still thought I was Arai’s. And so much has happened since then, so much intrigue, so many deaths: losing Shigeru and Naomi, pretending all the time I did not care; barely able to weep, not even when the father of my children tried to have me murdered, not even when I thought Kaede would die. . . .
It was not the first time that she had felt sickened by the constant pretense, the ruthlessness, the brutality. She thought of Shigeru and his desire for peace and justice, and of Ishida, who sought to heal, not to kill, and felt her heart twist with more pain than she would have thought possible. I am old, she thought. Next year I will turn thirty.
Her eyes went hot and she realized she was about to weep. The tears trickled down her face, and Kondo, mistaking them, held her more closely. Her tears lay wet between her cheek and his chest, forming a pool on the vermilion and sepia pictures that were tattooed on his body.
After a while she stood up and went to the waterfall. Dipping a cloth into the icy water, she washed her face, then cupped her hands to drink. The forest around her was silent apart from the croaking of spring frogs and the first tentative cicadas. The air was already cooling. They must hasten if they were to reach the village before nightfall.
Kondo had already picked up their bundles and slung them onto the pole. Now he lifted it to his shoulder.
“You know,” he said as they walked on, raising his voice so she could hear him, for she, knowing the path, was in front, “I don’t believe you would hurt Takeo. I don’t think it would be possible for you to kill him.”
“Why not?” she said, turning her head. “I’ve killed men before!”
“I know your reputation, Shizuka! But when you speak of Takeo, your face softens as if you pity him. And I don’t believe you would ever bring grief to Lady Shirakawa because of the strength of your affection for her.”
“You see everything! You know everything about me! Are you sure you’re not a fox spirit?” She wondered if he had discerned her affair with Ishida and prayed he would not speak of it.
“I have Tribe blood in my veins too,” he returned.
“If I am far from Takeo, I will not be torn two ways,” she said. “The same goes for you.” She walked on for a while in silence and then spoke abruptly. “I suppose I do pity him.”
“Yet, people say you are ruthless.” His voice had recovered its hint of mockery.
“I can still be moved by suffering. Not the sort people bring on themselves through their own stupidity, but the suffering that is inflicted by fate.”
The slope steepened and she felt her breath catch. She did not speak until it lessened again, but she was thinking of the threads that bound her life with Takeo and Kaede, and with the destiny of the Otori.
There was room on the path now for two, and Kondo came up alongside her.
“Takeo’s upbringing among the Hidden, his adoption into the warrior class by Shigeru, and the demands of the Tribe seem irreconcilable elements in his life,” Shizuka said finally. “They will tear him apart. And now this marriage will arouse more hostility against him.”
“I don’t suppose he’ll live for long. Sooner or later someone will catch up with him.”
“You never know,” she replied, pretending a lightness she did not feel. “Perhaps it would not be possible for me, or anyone else, to kill him—because we would never get near him.”
“Two attempts were made on his way to Terayama,” Kondo said. “They both failed and three men died.”
“You did not tell me that!”
“I suppose I didn’t want to alarm Lady Shirakawa and make her ill again. But with every death the rage against him grows stronger. It’s not a way I would like to live.”
No, Shizuka thought, nor would any of us. We would like to live without intrigue and suspicion. We would like to sleep deeply at night, not listening for every unfamiliar sound, fearing the knife through the floor, the poison in the meal, the unseen archer in the forest. At least for a few weeks I can feel safe in the secret village.
The sun was beginning to set, sending brilliant rays between the cedars and turning their trunks black. The light spilled extravagantly across the forest floor. For the last few minutes Shizuka had been aware that someone was following them.
It must be the children, she thought, and remembered with a flash of clarity how she had honed her own skills as a child in this very area. She knew every rock, every tree, every contour of the land.
“Zenko! Taku!” she called. “Is that you?”
One stifled giggle was the only reply. She thought she heard footsteps; loose rocks fell somewhere in the distance. The children were taking the quick way home, running up the ridge and down again while she and Kondo followed the winding path. She smiled and tried to shake off her dark mood. She had her sons; she would do whatever seemed best for them. And she would follow her grandparents’ advice. Whatever they told her to do, she would do. There was a certain comfort in obedience,
and, as Kondo said, it meant everything to the Tribe.
Again, she tried not to think of her own deep disobedience in the past and hoped it would remain buried with the dead.
They left the main path and, clambering over a pile of boulders, followed a smaller one that wound through a craggy ravine. At the far end it made one more twist and began to descend into the valley. Shizuka stopped for a moment; the view never failed to enchant her, the hidden valley in the middle of the rugged mountain country was so surprising. Through the slight haze made up of mist rising from the stream and smoke from hearth fires they could look down on the small collection of buildings, but by the time they had followed the path through the fields the houses stood above them, protected by a strong wooden wall.
The gate, however, was open, and the men guarding it greeted Shizuka cheerfully.
“Hey! Welcome home!”
“Is this how you greet visitors now? Very casual; suppose I was a spy?”
“Your sons already told us you were coming,” one of the guards replied. “They saw you on the mountain.”
A sweet relief ran through her. She had not realized until this moment the depth of her constant anxiety for them. But they were alive and healthy.
“This is Kondo—” She broke off, realizing she did not know his given name.
“Kondo Kiichi,” he said. “My father was Kuroda Tetsuo.”
The guards’ eyes narrowed as they registered the name, placed him in the Tribe hierarchy, and summed him up by appearance as well as by history. They were cousins or nephews of hers: She had grown up with them, spending months on end with her grandparents, sent there for training while she was still a child. When they were boys she had competed with them, studied and outwitted them. Then her life had led her back to Kumamoto and to Arai.
“Be careful of Shizuka!” one of them now warned Kondo. “I’d sooner sleep with a viper.”
“You’ve got more chance,” she retorted.
Kondo said nothing but glanced at her, one eyebrow raised, as they walked on.
From outside, the village buildings looked like ordinary farmhouses, with steep-pitched thatch roofs and faded cedar beams. Farming tools, firewood, sacks of rice, and reed stalks were all stacked away neatly in the sheds at the ends of the buildings. The outer windows were barred with wooden slats and the steps were made from rough-hewn mountain stone. But, within, the houses held many secrets: hidden passageways and entrances, tunnels and cellars, false cupboards and floors, which could conceal the whole community if necessary. Few knew of the existence of this secret village, and even fewer found their way here; yet the Muto family were always ready for attack. And here they trained their children in the ancient traditions of the Tribe.
Shizuka felt an involuntary thrill at the memory of it. Her heartbeat quickened. Nothing since then, not even the fight at Inuyama Castle, came anywhere near the intense excitement of those childhood games.
The main house lay in the center of the village, and at its entrance her family were already waiting to greet her: her grandfather with her two sons and, to her surprise and pleasure, next to the old man, her uncle, Muto Kenji.
“Grandfather, Uncle,” she greeted them demurely, and was about to introduce Kondo when the younger boy ran to her excitedly and threw his arms round her waist.
“Taku!” his older brother rebuked him, and then said, “Welcome, Mother. It’s been such a long time since we saw you.”
“Come here and let me look at you,” she said, delighted by their appearance. They had both grown and had lost their childhood chubbiness. Zenko had turned twelve at the beginning of the year, and Taku ten. Even the younger boy had strength and hardness in his muscles, and they both had direct, fearless eyes.
“He is growing like his father,” Kenji said, clapping Zenko on the shoulder.
It was true, Shizuka thought, gazing on her older son. He was the image of Arai. Taku, she thought, had more of a Muto look, and he, unlike his brother, bore the straight line of his Kikuta relatives across his palms. The sharp hearing and other skills might already be manifesting themselves. But she would find out more about that sort of thing later.
Kondo, meanwhile, had knelt before the two Muto masters, telling them his name and parentage.
“He is the one who saved my life,” Shizuka said. “You may have heard: There was an attempt to murder me.”
“You are not the only one,” Kenji said, catching her eye as if to silence her, and indeed, she did not want to say too much in front of the boys. “We’ll talk about it later. I’m glad to see you.”
A maid came with water to wash the dust from the travelers’ feet.
Shizuka’s grandfather said to Kondo, “You are very welcome, and we are deeply grateful to you. We met a long time ago; you were only a child, you probably don’t remember. Please, come and eat.”
As Kondo followed the old man inside, Kenji murmured to Shizuka, “But what has happened? Why are you here? Is Lady Shirakawa all right?”
“Nothing has changed your fondness for her, I see,” Shizuka replied. “She has joined Takeo in Terayama. I expect they will marry soon—against all my advice, I might add. It is a disaster for them both.”
Kenji sighed quietly. She thought she saw a slight smile on his face. “A disaster, probably,” he said, “but one ordained by fate.”
They stepped inside the house. Taku had run ahead to tell his great-grandmother to bring wine and cups, but Zenko walked quietly next to Kondo.
“Thank you for saving my mother’s life, sir,” he said formally. “I am in your debt.”
“I hope we will get to know each other and be friends,” Kondo replied. “Do you like hunting? Maybe you can take me out on the mountain. I’ve eaten no meat for months.”
The boy smiled and nodded. “Sometimes we use traps and, later in the year, falcons. I hope you will still be here then.”
He is a man already, Shizuka thought. If only I could protect him . . . if only they both could stay children forever.
Her grandmother came with the wine. Shizuka took it from her and served the men. Then she went with the old woman to the kitchen, breathing in deeply, savoring all the familiar smells. The maids, cousins of hers, welcomed her with delight. She wanted to help with the food as she always had, but they would not let her.
“Tomorrow, tomorrow,” her grandmother said. “Tonight you can be the honored guest.”
Shizuka sat on the edge of the wooden step that led from the earthen-floored kitchen to the main part of the house. She could hear the murmur of the men talking, the higher voices of the boys, Zenko’s already breaking.
“Let’s drink a cup together,” her grandmother said, chuckling. “We didn’t expect you, but you’re all the more welcome for that. What a jewel, isn’t she?” she appealed to the maids, who readily agreed.
“Shizuka is prettier than ever,” Kana said. “More like the boys’ sister than their mother.”
“And she’s got a good-looking man in tow as usual.” Miyabi laughed. “Did he really save your life? It’s like something out of a story.”
Shizuka smiled and drank the wine in a gulp, happy for the moment to be home, listening to the sibilant dialect of her relatives as they pressed her for gossip and news.
“They say Lady Shirakawa is the most beautiful woman in the Three Countries,” Kana said. “Is it true?”
Shizuka downed another cup, feeling the warmth of the wine hit her stomach and send its cheerful message through her body.
“You’ve no idea how beautiful,” she replied. “You say I’m pretty. Well, men look at me and want to sleep with me, but they look at Shirakawa Kaede and despair. They can’t bear the fact that such beauty exists and they will never possess it. I tell you, I was far prouder of her looks than of my own.”
“They say she bewitches people,” Miyabi said, “and whoever desires her dies.”
“She’s bewitched your uncle,” the old woman cackled. “You should hear him talk about her.”
“Why did you leave her?” Kana asked, deftly dropping vegetables sliced as thin as paper into the steamer.
“She’s been bewitched herself by love. She’s joined Otori Takeo, the Kikuta boy who’s caused so much trouble. They are determined to marry. He sent me and Kondo away because the Kikuta have issued an edict against him.”
Kana yelped as she steamed her fingers by mistake.
“Ah, what a shame,” Miyabi sighed. “They’re both doomed, then.”
“What do you expect?” Shizuka retorted. “You know the punishment for disobedience.” But the corners of her own eyes grew hot as if she were about to weep.
“Come, come,” her grandmother said. She seemed more gentle than Shizuka remembered. “You’ve had a long journey. You’re tired. Eat and get your strength back. Kenji will want to talk to you tonight.”
Kana spooned rice from the cooking pot into a bowl and heaped vegetables on top of it. They were the spring vegetables of the mountain, burdock, fern shoots, and wild mushrooms. Shizuka ate where she was, sitting on the step, as she so often had when she was a child.
Miyabi asked delicately, “I have to prepare the beds, but . . . where is the visitor to sleep?”
“He can go with the men,” Shizuka replied through a mouthful of rice. “I will be up till late with my uncle.”
If they slept together in her family home, it would be as good as announcing their marriage. She was not sure yet; she would do nothing without seeking Kenji’s advice.
Her grandmother patted her on the hand, her eyes bright and happy, and poured them both another cup of wine. When the rest of the meal was ready and the girls had taken the trays of food to the men, the old woman got to her feet.
“Take a walk with me. I want to go to the shrine. I’ll make an offering in thanks for your safe return.”
She took rice balls, wrapped in a cloth, and a small flask of wine. Next to Shizuka she seemed to have shrunk, and she walked more slowly, grateful for her granddaughter’s arm to lean on.
Night had fallen. Most people were inside, eating the evening meal or preparing for sleep. A dog barked at the door of one house and bounded toward them but was called back by a woman, who then shouted a greeting to them.
