Grass for His Pillow

by Lian Hearn

  It was empty. The clothes lay on the floor: clean loincloth, quilted undergarments, silken outer robe, also quilted, and sash. The robe was a dark plum color woven with a deeper pattern of purple, the Otori crest in silver on the back. I put it on slowly, relishing the touch of the silk. It had been a long time since I had worn anything of this quality. I wondered why it was at the temple and who had left it here. Had it been Shigeru’s? I felt his presence envelop me. The first thing I would do in the morning would be to visit his grave. He would tell me how to achieve revenge.

  The smell of the food made me realize how famished I was. The meal was more substantial than anything I’d had for days, and it took me just two minutes to devour it. Then, not wanting to lose the heat from the bath or to fall asleep, I went through some exercises, ending with meditation.

  Beyond the wind and the snow I could hear the monks chanting from the main hall of the temple. The snowy night, the deserted room with its memories and ghosts, the serene words of the ancient sutras, all combined to produce an exquisite bittersweet sensation. My spine chilled. I wished I could express it, wished I had paid more attention when Ichiro had tried to teach me poetry. I longed to hold the brush in my hand: If I could not express my feelings in words, perhaps I could paint them.

  “Come back to us,” the old priest had said, “When all this is over. . . .” Part of me wished I could do that and spend the rest of my days in this tranquil place. But I remembered how even here I had overheard plans of war; the monks were armed and the temple fortified now. It was far from over; indeed it was only just begun.

  The chanting came to an end and I heard the soft pad of feet as the monks filed away to eat, then sleep for a few hours until the bell roused them at midnight. Footsteps approached the room from the cloister, and the same monk came to the door and slid it open. He bowed to me and said, “Lord Otori, our abbot wishes to see you now.”

  I stood and followed him along the cloister. “What’s your name?”

  “Norio, sir,” he replied, and added in a whisper, “I was born in Hagi.”

  He did not say more, the rule of the temple being that no one spoke unnecessarily. We walked around the central courtyard, already filled with snow, past the eating hall where the monks knelt in silent rows, each with a bowl of food in front of him, past the main hall, which smelled of incense and candle wax and where the golden figure sat gleaming in the dimness, to the third side of the square. Here lay a series of small rooms used as offices and studies. From the farthest I could hear the click of prayer beads, the whisper of a sutra. We stopped outside the first room and Norio called in a low voice, “Lord Abbot, your visitor is here.”

  I was ashamed when I saw him, for it was the old priest himself, in the same old clothes I had seen him in when I had last been at Terayama. I had thought him one of the old men of the temple, not its head. I had been so wrapped up in my own concerns, I had not even known who he was. I dropped to my knees and touched my forehead to the matting. As informal as ever, he came toward me, told me to sit up, and embraced me. Then he sat back and studied me, his face illuminated by his smile. I smiled back, sensing his genuine pleasure and responding to it.

  “Lord Otori,” he said, “I am very glad you have returned to us safely. You have been much on my mind. You have been through dark times.”

  “They are not over. But I seek your hospitality for the winter. I seem to be hunted by everyone, and I need a place of safety while I prepare myself.”

  “Makoto has told me a little of your situation. You are always welcome here.”

  “I must tell you my purpose right away. I mean to claim my inheritance from the Otori and punish those responsible for Lord Shigeru’s death. It may place the temple in some danger.”

  “We are prepared for that,” he replied serenely.

  “You are doing me a great kindness that I don’t deserve.”

  “I think you will find that those of us who have long-standing connections with the Otori consider ourselves in your debt,” he replied. “And of course we have faith in your future.”

  More than I have, I thought silently. I felt the color come to my face. It was unthinkable that he should praise me, after all the mistakes I had made. I felt like an impostor, dressed in the Otori robe, with my hair cropped, no money, no possessions, no men, no sword.

  “All endeavors start with a single action,” he said, as though he could read my mind. “Your first action was to come here.”

  “My teacher, Ichiro, sent me. He will meet me here in the spring. He advised me to seek Lord Arai’s protection. I should have done that from the start.”

  The abbot’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “No, the Tribe would not have let you live. You were far more vulnerable then. You did not know your enemy. Now you have some inkling of their power.”

  “How much do you know about them?”

  “Shigeru confided in me and sought my advice often. On his last visit we spoke at length about you.”

  “I didn’t hear that.”

  “No, he was careful to speak by the waterfall so you would not hear. Later we moved into this room.”

  “Where you spoke of war.”

  “He needed my assurance that the temple and the town would rise once Iida was dead. He was still of two minds about the assassination attempt, fearing he would simply be sending you to certain death. As it turned out, it was his own death that sparked the uprising, and we could not have prevented it even if we had wanted to. However, Arai was in alliance with Shigeru, not with the Otori clan. If he can take this territory for himself, he will. They will be at war by the summer.”

  He was silent for a moment, then went on, “The Otori intend to claim Shigeru’s land and declare your adoption illegal. Not content with conspiring in his death, they insult his memory. That’s why I’m glad you intend to take up your inheritance.”

  “Will the Otori ever accept me, though?” I held out my hands, palms upward. “I am marked as Kikuta.”

  “We’ll talk about that later. You’ll be surprised how many are awaiting your return. You’ll see in the spring. Your men will find you.”

  “An Otori warrior already tried to kill me,” I said, unconvinced.

  “Makoto told me. The clan will be split, but Shigeru knew this and accepted it. The rift was not of his making: The seeds were sown when he was usurped after his father’s death.”

  “I hold Shigeru’s uncles responsible for his death,” I said. “But the more I learn, the more it surprises me that they let him live so long.”

  “Fate decrees the lengths of all our lives,” he replied. “The Otori lords fear their own people. Their farmers are volatile by nature and tradition. They have never been completely cowed, like the peasants under the Tohan. Shigeru knew them and respected them and in turn won their respect and affection. That protected him against his uncles. Their loyalty will be transferred to you.”

  “Maybe,” I said, “but there is a more serious problem. I am now sentenced to death by the Tribe.”

  His face was calm, ivory-colored in the lamplight. “Which I imagine is another reason you are here.”

  I thought he would go on, but he fell silent. He was watching me with an expectant look on his face.

  “Lord Shigeru kept records,” I said, speaking carefully into the hushed room. “Records of the Tribe and their activities. I am hoping you will make them available to me.”

  “They have been kept here for you,” he replied. “I will send for them now. And of course there is something else I have been keeping for you.”

  “Jato,” I said.

  He nodded. “You are going to need it.”

  He called to Norio and asked him to go to the storehouse and fetch the chest and the sword.

  “Shigeru did not want to influence any decision you might make,” he said as I listened to Norio’s footsteps echoing away around the cloister. “He was aware that your inheritance would cause divisions in your loyalty. He was quite prepared for you t
o choose your Kikuta side. In that case no one would ever have access to the records except myself. But since you have chosen your Otori side, the records are yours.”

  “I have bought myself a few months of life,” I said with a trace of self-contempt. “There’s no nobility in my choice unless it is that I am finally doing what Lord Shigeru wanted. It’s hardly even a choice, since my life with the Tribe was approaching an end. As for my Otori side, it is only by adoption and will be questioned by everyone.”

  Again the smile lit his face, his eyes bright with understanding and wisdom. “Shigeru’s will is as good a reason as any.”

  I felt he had some other knowledge that he would share with me later, but even as that thought came I heard footsteps returning. I could not help tensing before I recognized them as Norio’s, slightly heavier this time: He was carrying the chest and the sword. He slid open the door and stepped inside, dropping to his knees. He placed the chest and the sword on the matting. I did not turn my head, but I heard the soft sound they made. My pulse quickened, with a mixture of joy and fear, at the prospect of holding Jato again.

  Norio closed the door behind him and, kneeling again, placed the precious objects in front of the abbot where I, too, could see them. They were both wrapped in pieces of old cloth, their power disguised. The abbot took Jato from its covering and held it out toward me in both hands. I took it in the same fashion, raised it above my head, and bowed to him, feeling the cool familiar weight of the scabbard. I longed to draw the sword and wake its steel song, but I would not do so in the presence of the abbot. I placed it reverently on the floor next to me while he unwrapped the chest.

  A smell of rue rose from it. I recognized it at once. It was indeed the one I had carried under Kenji’s eyes up the mountain path, thinking it some gift for the temple. Had Kenji no idea then of what it contained?

  The old man opened the lid—it was not locked—and the smell of rue intensified. He lifted one of the scrolls and held it out to me.

  “You were to read this one first. That was Shigeru’s instruction to me.” As I took it he said with sudden profound emotion, “I did not think this moment would come.”

  I looked into his eyes. Deep-set in his old face, they were as bright and as lively as a twenty-year-old’s. He held my gaze, and I knew he would never succumb to the Kikuta sleep. In the distance one of the smaller bells rang three times. In my mind’s eye I could see the monks at prayer, in meditation. I felt the spiritual power of this holy place, concentrated and reflected in the person of the old man before me now. Again I felt a rush of gratitude—to him, to the belief that sustained him, to heaven, and to the different gods who, despite my own disbelief, seemed to have taken my life into their charge and care.

  “Read it,” he prompted me. “The rest you can study later, but read this one now.”

  I unrolled the scroll, frowning at the script. I recognized Shigeru’s hand and I knew the characters, my own name among them, but the words made no sense to me. My eyes darted up and down the columns; I unrolled a little more and found myself in a sea of names. It seemed to be a genealogy, like the ones Gosaburo had explained to me in Matsue. Once I’d grasped that, I began to work it out. I went back to the introductory writing and read it carefully again. Then I read it a third time. I looked up at the abbot.

  “Is it true?”

  He chuckled softly. “It seems it is. You do not see your own face, so you don’t see the proof there. Your hands may be Kikuta, but your features are all Otori. Your father’s mother worked as a spy for the Tribe. She was employed by the Tohan and sent to Hagi when Shigeru’s father, Shigemori, was hardly more than a boy. A liaison occurred, apparently not one sanctioned by the Tribe. Your father was the result. Your grandmother must have been a woman of some ingenuity: She told no one. She was married to one of her cousins and the child was brought up as Kikuta.”

  “Shigeru and my father were brothers? He was my uncle?”

  “It would be hard for anyone to deny it, given the way you look. When Shigeru first set eyes on you, he was struck by your resemblance to his younger brother, Takeshi. Of course, the two brothers were very alike. Now, if your hair were longer, you would be the image of Shigeru as a young man.”

  “How did he discover this?”

  “Some of it from his own family records. His father had always suspected that the woman had conceived a child and confided this to him before he died. The rest Shigeru worked out for himself. He traced your father to Mino and realized a son had been born after his death. Your father must have suffered some of the same conflict as you. Despite being raised as Kikuta and despite his skills, high even by the standards of the Tribe, he still tried to escape from them; in itself this suggests that his blood was mixed and that he lacked the fanaticism of the true Tribe. Shigeru had been compiling his records of the Tribe since he first became acquainted with Muto Kenji. They met at Yaegahara; Kenji was caught up in the fighting and witnessed Shigemori’s death.” He glanced down at Jato. “He retrieved this sword and gave it to Shigeru. They may have told you the story.”

  “Kenji once alluded to it,” I said.

  “Kenji helped Shigeru escape from Iida’s soldiers. They were both young men then; they became friends. Apart from the friendship they were useful to each other. Over the years they exchanged information about many things—sometimes, it must be said, unwittingly. I don’t believe even Kenji realized how secretive, even devious, Lord Shigeru could be.”

  I was silent. The revelation had astonished me; yet, on reflection it made perfect sense. It had been my Otori blood that had been so eager to learn the lessons of revenge when my family were massacred at Mino—that same blood that had formed the bond with Shigeru. I grieved for him anew, wished I had known earlier, yet rejoiced that he and I shared the same lineage, that I truly belonged to the Otori.

  “This confirms that I have made the right choice,” I said finally, in a voice choked by emotion. “But if I am to be one of the Otori, a warrior, I have so much to learn.” I gestured at the scrolls in the chest. “Even my reading is poor!”

  “You have the whole winter ahead of you,” the abbot replied. “Makoto will help you with reading and writing. In the spring you should go to Arai to learn the practice of war. In the meantime you must study its theory and keep up your training with the sword.”

  He paused and smiled again. I could tell he had another of his surprises in store for me.

  “I shall teach you,” he said. “Before I was called to the service of the Enlightened One, I was considered something of an expert in these matters. My name in the world was Matsuda Shingen.”

  Even I had heard this name. Matsuda was one of the most illustrious Otori warriors of the previous generation, a hero to the young men of Hagi. The abbot chuckled as he read the astonishment on my face.

  “I think we will enjoy the winter. Plenty of exercise to keep us warm. Take your possessions, Lord Otori. We will begin in the morning. When you are not studying, you will join the monks in meditation. Makoto will rouse you at the hour of the Tiger.”

  I bowed before him, overwhelmed by gratitude. He waved me away.

  “We are just repaying our debt to you.”

  “No,” I said. “I am forever in your debt. I will do anything you tell me. I am completely at your service.”

  I was at the door when he called out, “Maybe there is one thing.”

  Turning, I fell to my knees. “Anything!”

  “Grow your hair!” he said, laughing.

  I could still hear him chuckling as I followed Norio back to the guest room. He was carrying the chest for me, but I held Jato. The wind had dropped a little; the snow had grown wetter and heavier. It dulled sound, blanketing the mountain, shutting off the temple from the world.

  In the room the bedding had already been laid out. I thanked Norio and bade him good night. Two lamps lit the room. I drew Jato from its scabbard and gazed on the blade, thinking of the fire that had forged it into this combination of
delicacy, strength, and lethal sharpness. The folds in the steel gave it a beautiful wavelike pattern. It was Shigeru’s gift to me, along with my name and my life. I held the sword in both hands and went through the ancient movements he had taught me in Hagi.

  Jato sang to me of blood and war.

  ·8·

  Kaede came back from afar, out of a red landscape, lapped by fire and blood. She had seen terrifying images during her fever; now she opened her eyes on the familiar light and shade of her parents’ house. Often, when she had been a hostage with the Noguchi, she had had this dream of waking at home, only to wake properly a few moments later to the reality of life in the castle. She lay still now, eyes closed, waiting for the second waking, aware of something pricking her in the lower part of her belly and wondering why she should dream of the smell of mugwort.

  “She has returned to us!” The man’s voice, a stranger’s, startled her. She felt a hand on her brow and knew it was Shizuka’s, remembering feeling it there many times before, when its firm, cool shape was the only thing that came between her mind and the terrors that assailed her. It seemed to be all she could remember. Something had happened to her, but her mind shied away from thinking about it. The movement reminded her of falling. She must have fallen from Takeo’s horse, Raku, the little gray horse he had given her; yes, she had fallen, and she had lost his child.

  Her eyes filled with tears. She knew she was not thinking clearly, but she knew the child was gone. She felt Shizuka’s hand move and then it returned holding a cloth, slightly warmed, to wipe her face.

  “Lady!” Shizuka said. “Lady Kaede.”

  Kaede tried to move her own hand, but it seemed to be immobilized, and something pricked her there too.

  “Don’t try to move,” Shizuka said. “Lord Fujiwara’s physician, Dr. Ishida, has been treating you. You are going to get well now. Don’t cry, lady!”

  “It’s normal,” she heard the physician say. “Those who come close to death always weep when they are brought back, whether from joy or sorrow I’ve never been able to tell.”