Mirror Sword and Shadow Prince

by Noriko Ogiwara

  Nanatsuka was strict, demanding unsparingly the same things he had demanded of the prince. And there was much to learn in the mountains: reading animal tracks, choosing a place to wait for game, trapping, covering one’s tracks, finding medicinal herbs, and marking a trail without leaving clues for others. And, of course, Oguna had to learn to shoot a bow. By the end of the day, he was exhausted, often nodding off before supper.

  Nanatsuka, however, was a competent teacher. He worked Oguna hard because he recognized that the boy could withstand such treatment. And Oguna, no matter how much his legs might hurt, never once complained. Nor did he give way to homesickness or lose his temper. He absorbed everything, was quick-witted, and applied what he learned. Even by Nanatsuka’s standards he was a good student. Compared to the prince at that age, however, Oguna still had a long way to go, especially when it came to his fear of snakes.

  It would have been unusual not to come across a snake when hiking through the mountains in spring. Whenever they did Oguna panicked at the mere sight, forgetting everything he had been taught. Nanatsuka struggled not to laugh when the boy leapt screaming to his feet yet again. Schooling his features into a frown, he said sternly, “If you don’t stop that, I’ll have to send you back to Mino. How can you expect to double for the prince if you can’t even look at a snake? You’ll ruin his reputation if you act like a coward.”

  “I really am trying …” Oguna mumbled.

  “Well, next time you see one, don’t scream. You believe they’re scary and that’s why they scare you. Don’t give in to your fear. Look straight at it and tell yourself it’s just a snake. Do you understand? Because I won’t put up with this kind of behavior anymore.”

  Oguna shuddered and nodded. “I’ll do my best,” he said.

  The next time a large pit viper slithered past where they crouched waiting for game, Oguna did indeed remain very quiet. “You see. You can do it if you try,” Nanatsuka said, only to find that Oguna had fainted dead away.

  After thinking it over, Nanatsuka decided that Oguna might conquer his phobia if he got used to snakes through daily exposure. With great effort he managed to find some snake eggs and hatch them in an earthen jar. Then he ordered Oguna to feed the hatchlings, which were no bigger than his little finger, believing that the boy wouldn’t fear something he had raised.

  Oguna did as he was told, catching spiders and frogs and feeding them to the snakes. But, although he showed no aversion to taking care of them, he lost his appetite. Noticing that this growing boy was barely eating and unaware of the cause, Nanatsuka scolded him severely. “Don’t waste food that’s put in front of you. It’s not free. And besides, your body doesn’t belong to you anymore. You’ve been placed into my care so that I can train you as the prince’s shadow. It’s your duty to grow up strong and healthy as soon as possible. Now eat your food.”

  Oguna nodded obediently and stuffed the food in his mouth. Although he was clearly forcing himself to eat without even tasting it, Nanatsuka pretended not to notice, thankful that he was at least eating.

  From that day on, Oguna ate everything placed in front of him. He still looked wan and pale, but as he kept up with his training Nanatsuka was sure that the boy would soon get over his fear. Then, one day while hiking along a mountain trail Oguna fell and failed to get up. Slipping an arm beneath his shoulders to help him up, Nanatsuka stopped in astonishment. He could feel the boy’s bones through his clothing. “What’s going on?” he said to himself. “I thought you were eating properly!”

  He had to carry the youth home on his back. When Oguna came to his senses, he confessed that he had thrown up every meal because of the snakes. Nanatsuka was dumbfounded.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded. “Did you think you’d be able to walk without eating?”

  “I’m sorry …” Oguna shrank under the covers. “I really wanted to get over my fear … really, I did.”

  What a strange child, Nanatsuka thought. It was hard to tell if he was a coward or not. Oguna must have been experiencing the agony of fear and starvation, yet Nanatsuka hadn’t even noticed until he collapsed. It had never occurred to him that a boy of twelve could bear so much without showing any outward sign. Nanatsuka was forced to revise his approach. Prince Oh-usu happened to return the same day, and when he asked for a report on Oguna’s progress, Nanatsuka told him what had happened.

  “I seem to have erred in my judgment. Perhaps I was too full of memories of teaching you. Now that I think about it, you always told me what you were feeling. If you were tired, you said so. When you did well, you boasted proudly. He isn’t like that at all. You may look alike, but you have very different temperaments.”

  The prince laughed. “It sounds like you’re saying I lacked patience. But never mind. That’s a good trait for Ousu to have. Actually, it’s perfect for someone who will be my shadow, don’t you think? Take good care of him for me. I’m looking forward to seeing how he turns out.”

  “If he could just get over his fear of snakes, I’d have no complaints about him becoming your servant.”

  “He told me he hates lightning as well. Don’t demand the impossible. After all, we can’t expect perfection. If he’s still afraid even when he reaches my age, then we’ll have to think about it, but there’s no rush. And even if he doesn’t get over it, I could always pretend to be afraid of snakes and lightning myself. It wouldn’t hurt for me to become more like my shadow, would it?” The prince seemed to accept the situation cheerfully without much concern.

  Nanatsuka returned to Oguna’s quarters in a new frame of mind. The first thing he did was to discard the snake jar. Then he went over to where Oguna lay and said, “Don’t worry about those snakes anymore. You can rest a few more days. The important thing is for you to eat.”

  Oguna gripped his covers and gazed wide-eyed at Nanatsuka. “You’re not going to send me home?”

  “No. I’m not sending you home.” Suddenly he felt sorry for the boy. From the day he had arrived, Nanatsuka had seen him only as the prince’s double in the making, forgetting that he was a lonely child just recently separated from his parents. Maybe that was why Oguna had kept his feelings to himself and strove to live up to Nanatsuka’s expectations.

  Sitting down by his pillow, Nanatsuka said, “Or would you like to go home? Come to think of it, you never say how you’re feeling.”

  Oguna gazed up at the ceiling for a moment, then shook his head and said in a small voice, “I don’t want to go home like this. I haven’t gotten any stronger. I vowed I’d do my best, but everything’s gone wrong …”

  Nanatsuka looked at him. “You’re doing very well,” he said, praising Oguna for the first time. “But you should let me know what you’re thinking. It’s good to do what you’re told, but you need to tell me if you can’t stand something or if you’re in pain. There’re some things that I won’t figure out unless you say so. I’m a little thickheaded, you know.”

  I never had to say anything before. Toko always did that for me, Oguna thought. She always knew what I was feeling before I put it into words. But here I’m on my own. I have to speak for myself. A wave of homesickness caught in his throat and he longed to go home. But he held it back, and gradually the pain in his heart receded. He looked up at Nanatsuka’s bearded face and said tentatively, “Nanatsuka, don’t you wish that I would go back to Mino?”

  “Why on earth would I wish that?”

  “I’ve wanted to apologize ever since that first day, when the prince asked you to be my teacher. Because of me, you can’t be with the prince. So I thought …” He hesitated, then said forlornly, “Surely you didn’t want to leave the prince’s side, not even for a moment?”

  Once again, Nanatsuka was forced to reassess the boy. Though quiet, he was keenly aware of what was going on around him. It was only now that Nanatsuka became aware of the discontent smoldering inside him, and it surprised him that Oguna had sensed it first.

  “You’re very perceptive,” he said gently. �
�It’s true that I wish I could be at the prince’s side. But it’s not your fault. Whether you had come or not, he would have sent me away. He’s like that sometimes, avoiding me because my nose is too keen, as he says.” He sighed. “He’s dangerous when he’s thinking of something that he doesn’t want me to discover. No one can stop him then. I know the cause. It’s the lady from Mino … I just hope he doesn’t do anything rash. He’s not one to fall in love easily, or to forget easily either. I’d be less worried if he found another worthy maiden … That’s why I’m concerned, although worrying won’t help.”

  Oguna, still ignorant in matters of love, was deeply impressed that Nanatsuka knew how the prince felt without having witnessed his confession at the pond.

  “So don’t trouble your head over such things,” Nanatsuka continued. “I’m sorry that I made you worry. How about we start fresh? You’re a good student and I have great expectations of you.” He smiled for the first time in many days. Oguna smiled back at him for the first time ever. The little wall of restraint between them finally dissolved.

  “Nanatsuka,” he said. “I think I’m hungry.”

  2

  SUMMER CAME, and anvil-topped clouds mushroomed in the deep blue sky, bringing with them sudden downpours. The thunder and lightning accompanying these storms caused Oguna and Nanatsuka even more grief than did snakes. Nanatsuka could not chase them away. Even the faintest rumble in the distance threw Oguna into a state of agitation.

  He’s so extreme, Nanatsuka thought. By now he knew that Oguna was no coward, a fact evident even in the way he drew his bow, and he had the self-control and concentration that would make him as good an archer as Prince Oh-usu. Nor did he fear the dark, heights, or pain. Although careful by nature, at times he was so heedless of danger that he appeared childishly naive. Yet at the mere hint of thunder this same boy clutched Nanatsuka’s arm in terror and broke into a cold sweat. Being indoors made no difference. His fear was so great that even Nanatsuka found it hard to remain calm.

  “I don’t like lightning either,” he told Oguna one day. “It’s terrifying when it hits. But your reaction seems abnormal. Did something happen to you when you were little—like a lightning strike close by?”

  Oguna shook his head.

  “Well, when I was young,” Nanatsuka said, “a lightning bolt struck a cedar right in front of me. The tree burst into a pillar of flame, and I thought my ears would explode. It was a terrible sight, but thunder still doesn’t make me jump the way it does you.”

  Oguna raised a frightened face and then peered out anxiously at the rain dripping from the eaves.

  “Listen, Oguna, it won’t strike nearby if there’s a pause between the flash of light and the sound of thunder.” But his words were useless. With each low grumble, Oguna grabbed his arm so tightly it hurt.

  When the storm had finally passed, Oguna tried to explain. “Every time I hear that sound, I see an image in my mind … an enormous, fiery snake twisting in the sky …” He spoke in a frightened whisper though there were no longer any clouds to be seen.

  “What?” Nanatsuka exclaimed. “You mean your fear of lightning comes from your fear of snakes? Snakes and lightning look the same to you?”

  After careful consideration, Oguna decided that this might be true.

  “I don’t understand you.” Nanatsuka sighed and gave up all hope of curing him.

  Nanatsuka not only trained Oguna to shoot with a bow and arrow but also to fish with a harpoon and a pole. A master at hiding in the wilderness, he passed on every survival skill he knew.

  One day when they were angling for catfish, Oguna hooked a large eel. The two of them danced about madly trying to hold on to its thrashing body, but it burrowed into the swamp, leaving the muddy pair behind. They looked at each other and burst out laughing, all cares forgotten as their voices rang across the water’s surface. It was the first time they had ever laughed together.

  The boy’s happy face touched Nanatsuka’s heart, perhaps because Oguna so seldom laughed aloud. His carefree laughter had a strangely translucent quality, and his smile was like clear pristine water as opposed to the brilliant radiance of the prince’s.

  When their laughter finally faded, Nanatsuka said, “You should laugh more often. You’re still young. When the prince was your age, he laughed like that every day. His emotions run deep, so he used to laugh a lot and get mad a lot too. He can control himself when he needs to now, but until he learned to do that, he suffered and so did the rest of us. That’s one point at least in which you don’t seem to need any training.”

  “I think I learned that before I came,” Oguna said casually. “Because I spent so much time with Toko.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  Looking at the bright sky reflected in the surface of the marsh, Oguna thought of his childhood companion. Toko always burst out laughing at the slightest thing, and the sound was so familiar he could hear her even now, just thinking about it.

  Nanatsuka was lost in reverie too. “The prince rarely cried,” he said. “But I did see him weep a few times. Once he started, there was no stopping him. Everyone fled before his tears, even me.”

  Nanatsuka often told Oguna stories about the prince. It was part of his training, although Oguna suspected that Nanatsuka enjoyed it too. His expression grew tender and affectionate. “I first saw him cry when his favorite horse died. He was so upset that he killed every other horse in the stable and then destroyed the building … It was like a howling gale passing through. That’s his nature—to love passionately and grieve deeply.”

  “He didn’t need to kill the other horses, though,” Oguna said.

  “Yes, you’re right. He went too far. But he’s like that sometimes.” He paused for a moment, and then added with feeling, “Many people flock to him for that very quality. He has the charisma of a born leader. A cold, ruthless person doesn’t inspire men like me. We’re drawn to leaders who have feelings and care about others, like the prince.”

  AUTUMN CAME, dyeing the trees and mountains crimson. Nanatsuka began carrying a large pot strapped to his back on their hikes, which made him look a bit like a turtle with an undersized shell. Oguna wondered at his strange burden, but he learned its purpose on the day he shot his first deer. Nanatsuka lit a fire on the spot and began butchering the animal. Oguna watched, entranced by the swift, deft movements of his hands. Nanatsuka threw the meat into the pot along with mushrooms and herbs he had gathered along the trail before adding salt and seasonings. Soon a stew was bubbling merrily over a makeshift fireplace of stones.

  “This is to celebrate shooting your first deer. You can consider yourself on your way to becoming a hunter now, although not a great one yet. So eat up.” Laughing at Oguna’s look of astonishment, Nanatsuka explained that his greatest skill was neither hunting nor combat but outdoor cooking. Oguna noticed that while he was cooking he had looked happier than he ever had before, grinning with satisfaction every time he added an herb or tasted the broth. “I can’t produce the kind of delicacies made by the cooks in the palace kitchen, but when it comes to making a meal from what’s available in the woods, I’m sure I could beat them hands down. That’s one of the skills the prince treasures me for. When I’m by his side, I make sure that he doesn’t go without good food.”

  “You’re amazing!” Oguna exclaimed. Using the chopsticks they had whittled from bamboo, he picked up a chunk of tenderly stewed meat and popped it in his mouth. His eyes widened in admiration.

  Nanatsuka was in a fine mood. Oguna had made remarkable progress since the beginning of autumn and, as his teacher, Nanatsuka had much to be proud of. It helped that both snakes and thunderstorms were rare during this season. They relaxed around the fire in the shade of the colored leaves and drank in the clear, peaceful mountain air.

  “My native land is famous for hishio seasoning,” Nanatsuka said. “My mother made the best in the country.”

  This was Oguna’s first opportunity to learn about Nanatsuka’s past. “Where were
you born?” he asked. “Was it near here?”

  “No, I come from a land called Hidakami. It’s much farther east, way past Mino—it’s about a month’s journey over mountains and rivers.”

  “That is a long way … What’s it like?”

  “Completely different from Mahoroba. The plains spread out forever, and the marshes too. You can’t begin to imagine. I learned to hunt there. The land is so flat that the antlers on a herd of deer look like a forest of tree branches in the distance.”

  Oguna sat with his chin propped in his hand, trying to picture a forest of antlers. “I’d love to see it.”

  “I haven’t been back for twenty years. There are times when I wish I could see if the deer still gather like that in the reedy fields of Hidakami. If I live long enough and grow too old to serve the prince, maybe I’ll go back for one last look before I die.”

  Watching him speak dispassionately about his homeland, Oguna noticed for the first time how different he was from people in this part of the country with his enormous size, his heavy beard, and hawklike nose. Oguna was not the only one who had left his home far behind to live in the capital of a strange land. “So you wish you could go back sometimes too,” he said.

  “It’s not easy to forget the place where you were born and raised,” Nanatsuka responded. “But I have no intention of leaving the prince. I have a debt to repay. He saved my life.” He smiled at Oguna, who was listening intently. “I was a criminal. He intervened and pleaded for my life, then brought me here. On that day, Nanatsuka of Hidakami died and was reborn a servant to the prince. Although I still dream of home, my first duty is to the prince because I belong to him.”

  THE WHITE WINTER DAYS of blowing on cold, aching fingers gave way to the new buds of spring. Whether or not he had given up contemplating something of which Nanatsuka would disapprove Oguna could not tell, but Prince Oh-usu seemed to have changed his mind, for he ordered Nanatsuka to accompany him once more. Nanatsuka simply bowed respectfully and resumed his former duties. Oguna alone sensed just how happy he was. Although he couldn’t help feeling disappointed, there was nothing he could do about it. After all, Nanatsuka is here to serve the prince, not me, he reminded himself. This knowledge made him sad, for he had come to love Nanatsuka during their year together. But it was Oguna’s nature to accept his fate without complaint. He was used to other people being loved more than he. In fact, as an abandoned child, he would have found it hard to believe that anyone could put him first. It was not that he didn’t wish for it, but he lacked the confidence to ask this of others, even of someone as kind as his foster-mother Matono.