Grass for His Pillow

by Lian Hearn

  I was still invisible but helpless, pinned under him like a carp on the cook’s slab. I felt my vision blacken; then he loosened his grip slightly.

  “You traitor,” he said. “Kenji warned us you would go back to the Otori in the end. I’m glad you did, because I’ve wanted you dead since the first time we met. You’re going to pay now. For your insolence to the Kikuta, for my hand. And for Yuki.”

  “Kill me,” I said, “as your family killed my father. You will never escape our ghosts. You will be cursed and haunted till the day you die. You murdered your own kin.”

  The boat moved beneath us drifting with the tide. If Akio had used his hands or knife then, I would not be telling this story. But he couldn’t resist one last taunt. “Your child will be mine. I’ll bring him up properly as a real Kikuta.” He shook me violently. “Show me your face,” he snarled. “I want to see your look when I tell you how I’ll teach him to hate your memory. I want to watch you die.”

  He leaned closer, his eyes searching for my face. The boat drifted into the path of the moon. As I saw its brightness I let visibility return and looked straight into his eyes. I saw what I wanted to find: the jealous hatred of me that clouded his judgment and weakened him.

  He realized in a split second and tried to wrench his gaze away but the blow from the oar must have slowed his usual quickness and it was too late. He was already made dizzy by the encroaching Kikuta sleep. He slumped sideways, his eyelids flickering erratically as he fought it. The boat tipped and rocked. His own weight took him headfirst into the river.

  The boat drifted on, faster now, carried by the swelling tide. In the moonlit road across the water I saw the body surface. It floated gently. I was not going to go back and finish him off. I hoped he’d drown or freeze to death but I left it to fate. I took up the oar and sculled the boat to the far shore.

  By the time I got there I was shivering with cold. The first roosters were crowing and the moon was low in the sky. The grass on the bank was stiff with frost and stones and twigs gleamed white. I disturbed a sleeping heron and wondered if it was the one that came to fish in Shigeru’s garden. It flew off from the highest branches of the willow with the familiar clack of wings.

  I was exhausted but far too wrought up to think of sleep, and anyway I had to keep moving to warm myself. I forced myself to a quick pace, following the narrow mountain road toward the southeast. The moon was bright and I knew the track. By daybreak I was over the first pass and on my way down to a small village. Hardly anyone was stirring, but an old woman was blowing up the embers in her hearth and she heated some soup for me in return for one of the coins. I complained to her about my senile old master sending me off on a wildgoose chase through the mountains to a remote temple. The winter would undoubtedly finish him off and I’d be stranded there.

  She cackled and said, “You’ll have to become a monk, then!”

  “Not me. I like women too much.”

  This pleased her, and she found some freshly pickled plums to add to my breakfast. When she saw my string of coins she wanted to give me lodging as well as food. Eating had brought the sleep demon closer, and I longed to lie down, but I was too afraid of being recognized and I already regretted I had said as much as I had to her. I might have left Akio in the river, but I knew how the river gives up its victims, both the living and the dead, and I feared his pursuit. I was not proud of my defection from the Tribe after I had sworn to obey them, and in the cold light of morning I was beginning to realize what the rest of my life would be like. I had made my choice to return to the Otori, but now I would never be free from the dread of assassination. An entire secret organization would be drawn up against me to punish me for my disloyalty. To slip through their web, I had to move faster than any of their messengers would. And I had to get to Terayama before it began to snow.

  The sky had turned the color of lead when I reached Tsuwano on the afternoon of the second day. My thoughts were all of my meeting there with Kaede and the sword-training session when I had fallen in love with her. Was her name already entered in the ledgers of the dead? Would I have to light candles for her now every year at the Festival of the Dead until I died? Would we be joined in the afterworld, or were we condemned never to meet again either in life or in death? Grief and shame gnawed at me. She had said, “I only feel safe with you,” and I had abandoned her. If fate were to be kind and she were to come into my hands again, I would never let her go.

  I regretted bitterly my decision to go with the Tribe, and I went over the reasons behind my choice many times. I believed I had made a bargain with them and my life was forfeit to them—that was one thing. But beyond that I blamed my own vanity. I had wanted to know and develop the side of my character that came from my father, from the Kikuta, from the Tribe: the dark inheritance that gave me skills I was proud of. I had responded eagerly and willingly to their seduction, the mixture of flattery, understanding, and brutality with which they had used and manipulated me. I wondered how much chance I had to get away from them.

  My thoughts went round and round in circles. I was walking in a kind of daze. I’d slept a little in the middle of the day in a hollow off the side of the road, but the cold woke me. The only way to stay warm was to keep walking. I skirted the town and, descending through the pass, picked up the road again near the river. The current had subsided from the full flood caused by the storms that had delayed us in Tsuwano, and the banks had been mended, but the bridge here, a wooden one, was still in ruins. I paid a boatman to take me across. No one else was traveling so late; I was his last customer. I felt he was eyeing me curiously but he did not speak to me. I could not place him as Tribe but he made me uneasy. He dropped me on the other side and I walked quickly away. When I turned at the corner of the road, he was still watching me. I made a movement with my head but he did not acknowledge it.

  It was colder than ever, the air dank and icy. I was already regretting that I had not found shelter for the night. If I was caught by a blizzard before the next town, I stood little chance of surviving. Yamagata was still several days away. There would be a post station at the fief border, but, despite Ichiro’s letter and my disguise as a servant, I did not want to spend the night there—too many curious people, too many guards. I didn’t know what to do, so I kept walking.

  Night fell. Even with my Tribe-trained eyes it was hard to see the road. Twice I wandered off it and had to retrace my steps. Once I stumbled into some sort of hole or ditch with water at the bottom, soaking my legs up to the knees. The wind howled and strange sounds came from the woods, reminding me of legends of monsters and goblins and making me think the dead walked behind me.

  By the time the sky began to pale in the east, I was frozen to the bone and shivering uncontrollably. I was glad to see the dawn but it gave no relief from the bitter cold. Instead it just brought home to me how alone I was. For the first time the idea crept insidiously into my head that if the fief border was manned by Arai’s men, I would give myself up to them. They would take me to Arai, but first they would surely give me something hot to drink. They would sit me down inside by the fire and make tea for me. I became obsessed by the thought of that tea. I could feel the heat of the steam on my face, the warmth of the bowl in my hands. I was so obsessed by it that I did not notice someone walking behind me.

  I was aware suddenly of a presence at my back. I turned, astonished that I had not heard the footfall on the road, had not even heard breathing. I was amazed, even frightened, at my apparent loss of hearing. It was as though this traveler had fallen from the sky or walked above the ground as the dead do. Then I knew that either exhaustion had unhinged my mind or I was indeed seeing a ghost, for the man walking just behind me was the outcast Jo-An, who I thought had been tortured to death by Arai’s men in Yamagata.

  So great was the shock, I thought I would faint. The blood rushed from my head, making me stagger. Jo-An grabbed me as I fell, his hands seeming real enough, strong and solid, smelling of the tannery. Earth and sk
y turned around me and black spots darkened my sight. He lowered me to the ground and pushed my head between my knees. Something was roaring in my ears, deafening me. I crouched like that, his hands holding my head, until the roaring lessened and the dark receded from my vision. I stared at the ground. The grass was rimed by frost, and tiny particles of black ice lay between each stone. The wind howled in the cedars. Apart from that, the only sound was my teeth chattering.

  Jo-An spoke. There was no doubt; it was his voice. “Forgive me, lord. I startled you. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

  “They told me you were dead. I didn’t know if you were a living being or a ghost.”

  “Well, I might have died for a while,” he whispered. “Arai’s men thought so and threw my body out in the marshland. But the Secret God had other plans for me and sent me back to this world. My work here is not yet done.”

  I lifted my head carefully and looked at him. He had a new scar, not long healed, from nose to ear, and several teeth missing. I took his wrist and brought his hand round so I could see it. The nails were gone, the fingers clubbed and twisted.

  “I should be asking your forgiveness,” I said, sickened.

  “Nothing happens to us that is not planned by God,” he replied.

  I wondered why any god’s plans had to include torture, but I did not say this to Jo-An. Instead I asked, “How did you find me?”

  “The boatman came to me and told me he had ferried someone he thought was you across the river. I’ve been waiting for word of you. I knew you would come back.” He took up the bundle he’d placed by the side of the road and began to untie it. “The prophecy has to be fulfilled, after all.”

  “What prophecy?” I remembered that Kenji’s wife had called him the lunatic.

  He didn’t answer. He took two small millet cakes from the cloth, prayed over them, and gave one to me.

  “You are always feeding me,” I said. “I don’t think I can eat.”

  “Drink, then,” Jo-An said and handed me a rough bamboo flask. I wasn’t sure about drinking, either, but I thought it might warm me. As soon as the liquor hit my stomach the darkness came roaring back, and I vomited several times so hard I was racked by violent shuddering.

  Jo-An clicked his tongue as you would to a horse or an ox. He had the patient touch of a man used to dealing with animals, though of course he dealt with them at the moment of their death and then, afterward, flayed their corpses. When I could speak again I said through chattering teeth, “I must keep moving.”

  “Where are you heading?” he asked.

  “Terayama. I’ll spend the winter there.”

  “Well,” he said, and fell into one of his familiar silences. He was praying, listening to some inner voice that would tell him what to do. “It’s good,” he said finally. “We’ll go over the mountain. If you go by road they’ll stop you at the barrier, and anyway it will take too long; it will snow before you get to Yamagata.”

  “Over the mountain?” I looked up at the jagged peaks that stretched away to the northeast. The road from Tsuwano to Yamagata skirted around their foot, but Terayama itself lay directly behind them. Around the range the clouds hung low and gray, with the dull damp sheen that presages snow.

  “It’s a steep climb,” Jo-An said. “You must rest a little before you attempt it.”

  I began to think about getting to my feet. “I don’t have time. I must get to the temple before it snows.”

  Jo-An looked up at the sky and sniffed the wind. “It will be too cold to snow tonight, but it could well start tomorrow. We’ll ask the Secret One to hold it back.”

  He stood and helped me up. “Can you walk now? It’s not far back to the place I live. You can rest there, then I’ll take you to the men who will show you the way over the mountains.”

  I felt faint, as though my body had lost its substance, almost as though I’d split myself and somehow gone with my image. I was thankful for the Tribe training that had taught me to find those reserves of strength of which most men are unaware. Slowly as I concentrated my breathing I felt some energy and toughness return. Jo-An no doubt attributed my recovery to the power of his prayers. He regarded me for a moment with his deep-sunk eyes, then turned with a flicker of a smile and began to walk back the way we had come.

  I hesitated for a moment, partly because I hated the thought of retracing my steps, losing the ground it had cost me so much to cover, but also because I recoiled from going with the outcast. It was one thing to talk with him at night, alone, quite another to walk close to him, to be seen in his company. I reminded myself that I was not yet an Otori lord, and no longer one of the Tribe, that Jo-An was offering me help and shelter, but my skin crawled as I followed him.

  After walking for less than an hour we turned off the road onto a smaller path that followed the banks of a narrow river, through a couple of miserable villages. Children ran out to beg for food, but they backed away when they recognized the outcast. In the second village two older boys were bold enough to throw stones. One of them nearly struck me on the back—I heard the blow coming in time to step aside—and I was going to go back and punish the brat, but Jo-An restrained me.

  Long before we reached it I could smell the tannery. The river widened and eventually flowed into the main channel. At the confluence stood the rows of wooden frames, skins stretched on them. Here in this damp sheltered spot they were protected from frost, but as winter’s bite strengthened they would be taken down and stored till spring. Men were already at work, all outcasts of course, half-naked despite the cold, all as skeletally thin as Jo-An and with the same beaten look like mistreated dogs. Mist hung on the river, mingled with smoke from charcoal fires. A floating bridge, made of reeds and bamboo lashed together with cords, had been constructed across the river. I remembered Jo-An telling me to come to the outcasts’ bridge if I ever needed help. Now some fate had brought me here; he would say the power of the Secret God, no doubt.

  On the far side of the frames a few small wooden huts had been erected. They looked as if one strong wind would flatten them. As I followed Jo-An to the threshold of the nearest one, the men continued their work, but I was aware of their gaze. Each one looked at me with a kind of intense entreaty, as though I meant something to them and could help them in some way.

  Trying to mask my reluctance, I stepped inside, not needing to remove my shoes as the floor was earthen. A small fire burned in the hearth. The air was thick with smoke, making my eyes sting. There was one other person inside, huddled in the corner, under a pile of hides. I thought it was Jo-An’s wife until he came forward on his knees and bowed his head to the dirt before me. It was the man who had ferried me across the river.

  “He walked most of the night to tell me he’d seen you,” Jo-An said apologetically. “He needed to rest a little before returning.”

  I was aware of the sacrifice it entailed, not only the lonely walk through the goblin-haunted darkness, but the danger from robbers and patrols and the loss of a day’s fees.

  “Why did he do this for me?”

  The boatman sat up then, raising his eyes and looking briefly at me. He said nothing, but the look he gave me was the same one I’d seen in the gaze of the tannery workers, a look of passion and hunger. I had seen it before, months earlier, on the faces of people as we rode back from Terayama to Yamagata, the look they threw out like an appeal to Shigeru. They had found in Shigeru the promise of something—justice, compassion—and now these men looked for the same thing in me. Whatever Jo-An had told them about me had transformed me into their hope.

  And something in me responded to this, just as it had to the villagers, to the farmers with their hidden fields. They were treated like dogs, beaten and starved, but I saw them as men, with the brains and hearts of men, no less than any warrior or merchant. I had been brought up among people like them and been taught that the Secret God saw them all with equal eyes. No matter what I became, no matter what other teaching I received from the Otori or the Tribe—despite
my own reluctance, even—it was impossible for me to forget this.

  Jo-An said, “He is your man now. As I am—as we all are. You only have to call on us.” He grinned, his broken teeth flashing in the dim light. He had made tea and handed me a small wooden bowl. I felt the steam rise against my face. The tea was made from twigs, such as we used to drink in Mino.

  “Why should I call on you? What I’m going to need is an army!” I drank and felt the warmth begin to spread through me.

  “Yes, an army,” Jo-An replied. “Many battles lie ahead of you. The prophecy says it.”

  “How can you help me, then? It is forbidden for you to kill.”

  “Warriors will kill,” Jo-An replied, “but there are many things they won’t do that are equally necessary—things they consider beneath them: building, slaughtering, burying. You’ll realize it when you need us.”