Late Summer, Early Spring

by Patricia Correll

  The trees thinned out, giving way to yam fields. In the distance, mountains rose and fell in gentle waves. Their rounded tops were cloaked in white mist.

  It was the next afternoon before they came upon the sign for Kikuchi, a plank painted with the village’s name in indifferent calligraphy. The sign pointed to a narrow dirt track that separated like a branch from the wide, flat main road.

  Turning a bend, they came upon the village. It was a single road of packed dirt, lined with neat thatched houses. A large stone well sat in the center of the road. A woman with a baby lashed across her back leaned over it, hauling up a bucket. She froze, staring at the strangers.

  Iwata rode to the opposite side of the stone lip. “We’re looking for the Fox Hunter, woman.”

  The woman’s eyes were huge and frightened. She said nothing.

  Annoyed, Iwata opened his mouth to snap at her. But before he could, Daigo slid off his horse.

  “That bucket is heavy.” He reached for the rope. “Let me help.”

  “Thank you.” The woman smiled, but cast a suspicious glance at Iwata. “My home is just over there.”

  Daigo hauled up the bucket. “We’re searching for a man. He’s my relative. Some people call him the Fox Hunter. It’s very important we…” His voice trailed off as he followed the woman to a little house that leaked smoke from its chimney. Iwata sighed with impatience as they disappeared inside.

  After a few minutes, Daigo emerged. Iwata dismounted and led the horses to meet him. The young man was chewing a strip of dried meat. He grinned triumphantly at Iwata. “He came here three days ago. He stayed two nights with a man called Kaji. He lives in that last house at the end of the row. Uncle Hiroshi didn’t talk much, but that woman gathered he was heading into the mountains.”

  “Anything else?”

  “She found the Fox Hunter intriguing. She thought he must be handsome under that beard.”

  Beard? Hiroshi had been clean-shaven the entire time Iwata had known him. He couldn’t imagine his former lover with a beard. Hiroshi used to complain that Iwata’s beard scratched him when they kissed.

  But how long had he known Hiroshi? Two years, before they became lovers. And they’d been lovers only six months. Two-and-a-half years.

  “I can’t imagine my uncle with a beard,” Daigo said, echoing Iwata’s thoughts. “Maybe he grew it to disguise himself from the fox. A beard would hide most of his scar.”

  “Let’s talk to this Kaji. Is he in the fields?”

  “No, the woman said he broke his ankle two weeks ago. He’ll be home, there.” Daigo hesitated. “My lord… perhaps you should allow me to speak with him.”

  Iwata scowled. Without answering, he started for the house Daigo had indicated.

  No one came to the door when Iwata knocked, so Daigo walked around the back of the house. A few moments later, he reappeared, walking next to a man who leaned heavily on a crutch. He looked to be around thirty—the same age Hiroshi was now—and had a long face with sharply slanted eyes.

  “…a strange accident,” he was saying to Daigo as they rounded the corner of the house. “The healer said I simply stepped on it awkwardly. Isn’t that odd?”

  Daigo shared his laughter. Iwata shifted impatiently as they made their slow, hobbling progress toward where he stood with the horses. The crippled man fixed him with a sharp, dark-eyed gaze.

  His narrow eyes widened a little. “Your name is Sho, isn’t it? Hiroshi told me about you.”

  Hiroshi. Kaji used his familiar name. Iwata looked at this man, at his friendly face and the way his lips curved when he said Hiroshi’s name. And he knew Kaji and Hiroshi had shared a sleeping mat. The knowledge snatched every word from his tongue. His fists tightened around the reins.

  Daigo, sensing the tension, interrupted. “This is Lord General Iwata Sho. We’re both looking for a man called the Fox Hunter. He’s my uncle.”

  “Where did he go?” Iwata forced the question through clenched teeth.

  “When he left, he said he was tracking the fox up into the mountains. He thought it was going over them, to the coast. I was curious, so after he left I poked around the trees here. I’m not much of a tracker but there are some broken branches here. Maybe he entered the forest there?” Kaji pointed to the end of the dirt track where the forest rose up in a tangle of budding branches. “That was yesterday.”

  Iwata threw the reins of Daigo’s horse to him. Daigo lunged awkwardly to catch them, and for the first time, Iwata noticed his hands were full of vegetables, winter squash, and onions.

  “It will be dark soon.” Kaji adjusted his crutch, never taking his gaze from Iwata. “You can stay here tonight. I live alone, so there’s plenty of room. You’ll never find him out there in the dark. No one could find him during the day, if he doesn’t want them to.” He smiled at Iwata’s glare. “But you, Iwata Sho. He might let himself be found by you.”

  ONCE IWATA had been able to fall asleep in an instant and float in dreamless stupor until he was woken. But as he’d gotten older, he found himself often starting awake for no reason, sleepless into the night more and more often. At first, half-asleep, he would grope for Hiroshi. But he’d long since stopped doing that.

  He turned his head. Beyond the smoldering embers of the fire, he saw Kaji and Daigo, dark lumps silhouetted against the faint sheen of moonlight that crept in through the house’s only window. Daigo snored softly. Iwata rose, fumbled for the cloak he’d folded by his mat, and pulled it on. He slipped on his sandals and crept toward the door, carefully stepping over the crutch Kaji had left next to the fire pit.

  The air outside was chilled and still smelled faintly of snow. Iwata shivered. The two horses had been staked at the corner of the house. Iwata’s warhorse raised his head at the sound of his master’s footsteps. But when Iwata remained where he was, the animal closed its eyes again.

  Above the trees a three-quarter moon shone brightly. Iwata could clearly see the shadow on its face that held the shape of a rabbit—wasn’t there a story about that? Iwata shook his head. This was what happened when he had no army to direct. He began entertaining nonsense. He leaned against the house, gazing around at the silent village.

  When the door opened, Iwata knew it wasn’t Daigo. He wondered if that was really the reason why he’d come out here—to wait for Kaji.

  The younger man eased himself out the door and closed it almost silently behind him. He leaned next to Iwata, holding his bandaged foot out before him. He balanced his crutch against the wall. For a moment they gazed in silence at the moon and its resident rabbit.

  Then Kaji said, “I know you don’t like me. It’s all right.”

  Iwata snorted. “I don’t need your permission to dislike you.”

  “No.” Kaji chuckled softly. “When I was younger, I got it into my head that I wanted to be a monk. So I left my home in this very village as soon as I was old enough and set off for a monastery. But after two years, I decided monasticism wasn’t for me. It was the chanting, I think. It used to put me to sleep. The Head Brother probably put two dozen whip scars on my back.”

  Iwata sighed in annoyance.

  “I left the monastery, but I was too ashamed of my failure to go home. So I started wandering the empire, working whenever someone would hire me, never staying in one place more than a few months. I realize now that I missed this village, poor as it is. But back then I didn’t know what drove me on and on. One night a snowstorm sprang up out of a sky that had been full of stars an hour before. I stumbled along, sure I was going to freeze to death, when I saw a lighted window. I knocked on the door, and a man answered. He looked so fierce, I thought he’d slam the door in my face.”

  Fierce? Hiroshi was a ferocious fighter, but he’d never looked intimidating.

  “Instead he helped me inside. It wasn’t his house—it was abandoned, and he was only stopping there for the night. He said his name was Hiroshi, but no more than that. The storm ended up raging for three days, and we were stuck there. We t
alked. He told me he was hunting a demon that killed his sister, and he’d sacrificed much for his vengeance, including the man he loved. That’s how I recognized you and knew your name.” Kaji shifted his weight uncomfortably. “That was four years ago, and I thought I’d never see him again. Eventually I came home to this village, to find my parents dead and my sisters married and moved away. I suppose it happens like that sometimes. But our old house was still empty, so I moved back in. Then, a few days ago, a stranger came into town just as you did, but on foot. I recognized him immediately. He was hurt—a sprained ankle, of all things—and needed a place to rest. I think Hiroshi was as surprised to see me as I was him. So for two days, my house hosted a pair of cripples. On the third day, I woke and he was gone, leaving nothing. It was as if he’d never been here, except for the branches I showed you.”

  Iwata said nothing. Kaji rubbed the bridge of his nose. “And yes, we were lovers those three days in the storm and for those two nights. But Hiroshi was always looking past me. It wasn’t my name he murmured in his sleep, Sho.”

  Anger flushed his face. “You’re too familiar. I am Lord General Iwata.”

  “Not anymore.” Kaji sounded amused. “You gave up your title when you left the army, didn’t you? You traded it for Hiroshi.”

  He picked up his crutch and shuffled back inside, closing the door gently behind him.

  Iwata stood outside a long time, trying to remember the story about the rabbit in the moon.

  THEY HAD to leave the horses with Kaji; the trees were too thick, the trails too steep for them.

  “They’ll have plenty of grass for them soon, and two or three little girls in this village will be happy to groom them.” Kaji gestured to the animals. “Just be sure to fetch them. Come winter, I can’t afford to feed them.”

  Iwata gave his horse a quick scratch on the neck. He wasn’t fond of animals, but the big gelding was a fine warhorse, equal parts power and discipline. He’d miss it for that. Nearby, Daigo leaned close to his mare’s face, rubbing her nose and murmuring wistfully. As Iwata shouldered his bag, Daigo reluctantly stepped away.

  “Behave for Master Kaji, Cloud.” Daigo bowed to Kaji. “Thank you for taking care of her. She was a gift from my father.”

  Iwata inclined his head to show his thanks. “He went into the forest here?”

  Kaji waved to the wall of trees at the end of Kikuchi’s lone road.

  Iwata nodded. “Let’s go, Daigo.”

  The forest allowed them in without much protest. The bare branches did little to impede them, and the brown undergrowth bent beneath their feet. Iwata turned east, toward the coast. Hiroshi had a day’s start, but once he reached the ocean, he would stop again. Foxes were spirits of the earth, so they wouldn’t be able to swim. Kaji said it had rained heavily after Hiroshi left, so perhaps that had slowed him as well.

  Iwata moved quickly, Daigo tramping firmly behind him. Around and above them, birds called to each other.

  Iwata was confident they would find Hiroshi soon.

  THAT EVENING it began to rain. The rain continued, cold and dense, for more than a day. It stopped just long enough for Iwata and Daigo to change their sodden clothes for ones that were slightly less damp. That night they tried to find rocky spots to spread their mats. Iwata’s back moaned reproachfully at him when he woke, but it was better than sleeping in the mud.

  “Does this damned forest never end?” he growled when he woke to heavy fog on the second day. It hung around them so thickly that Iwata couldn’t see Daigo, though he snored gently only a few feet away. The fog draped dampness over everything. Iwata wiped his face on his sleeve, but the water pricked his skin as soon as he’d finished. Irritably he shook Daigo.

  “You sleep too late, just like Hiroshi,” he told the yawning young man.

  “I’m sorry, my lord.” Daigo hastily rolled up his sleeping mat, his hands slipping on the slick reeds. “Lord General, am I very much like him? Shiro says I am a little, but I don’t remember.”

  “He’s good at everything he tries. If he hasn’t a natural talent for it, he’ll work hard until it seems like he does. Everything he did, he did for Lady Kumomo. He wanted to bring her honor, to make her proud. I thought it was because of his loyalty to your father, but… it was all for your mother. Hiroshi never did anything for himself.” Iwata paused, suddenly uncomfortable. He hadn’t meant to say so much—hadn’t meant to say anything at all.

  “But he did do one thing for himself.” Daigo pulled on his pack. “Because you and he… I mean, weren’t you…” His face flushed. “Never mind, my lord. Um, we’ll lose some time in this fog, won’t we?”

  Iwata turned on his heel. He couldn’t see more than an arm’s length in front of his face. The tips of his fingers disappeared into white mist. They could still go east—he’d marked the direction the evening before as the sun set. Fog swirled away from his feet with every step, then slipped back to cover them again. Trees appeared like black ghosts out of the mist. Daigo followed close—uncomfortably close, but Iwata knew he was nervous of being left behind.

  Their progress was painfully slow. Iwata stubbed his toes on rocks and cursed under his breath. He planted one foot squarely in the middle of a stream and nearly stepped off a rocky outcrop. Behind him Daigo panted, following.

  Without the sun Iwata couldn’t tell what time it was, and their difficult passage made the hours stretch. But he thought it was midafternoon when he realized something was following them. It was a collection of hints: the crackle of a browned stalk of grass, the scratch of a hand on a tree trunk, a tiny eddy in the fog as something moved within it. Something—someone—was stalking them. Iwata slipped his thumb between the guard of his katana and its scabbard. He wrapped his fingers around the familiar shape of the hilt. He said nothing to Daigo.

  They moved on slowly. Iwata listened. Suddenly Daigo spoke. “Lord General—”

  Iwata paused an instant, distracted. And in that moment, their stalker stepped out of the mist and wrapped a strong arm around Iwata’s chest. The other leveled a blade at his throat.

  Behind him, Daigo made a strangled sound. A voice by Iwata’s ear snapped, “Shut up!”

  Iwata knew that voice. He knew those arms and the long graceful fingers pressing into his chest. He breathed deeply. Sweat and steel.

  The blade—a short sword, thin as paper and sharp enough to slice bone—pressed into his skin, just enough for Iwata to feel its deadly sharpness. The voice hissed close to his ear, “Why are you following me?”

  Iwata’s throat tightened.

  “Hiro,” he said quietly. “It’s me.”

  The pressure of the blade eased. Hiroshi took a step back. Iwata turned, his stomach lurching with unfamiliar apprehension. But when he faced Hiroshi, it was with an unwavering gaze.

  The scar that pulled his right eye into a perpetual squint was just visible above the beard that covered his face. He was dressed like a peasant: knee-length robe over pants, sandals, a pack slung across his back. But he was also armed. His katana was tucked securely into his sash. He held the short sword level with Iwata’s chest.

  “Hiro,” Iwata said again, uneasy at the glassy look in Hiroshi’s eyes as if he didn’t recognize Iwata. “It’s me.”

  “Show me your leg.” Hiroshi’s tone was flat and cold. Iwata frowned, but he understood. He leaned down and yanked up the hem of his kimono, exposing the knotted scar on his thigh.

  “How did you get that?”

  Irritated now, Iwata dropped his robe. “I did it to myself. Do you have any other stupid questions?”

  Hiroshi didn’t smile, but the tension eased from his stance. “I’m sorry.”

  He slipped the short sword back into his sash with the elegant precision Iwata had always secretly loved to watch. Iwata was overwhelmed by a wave of longing. He wanted to lunge at Hiroshi and pull him into his arms, holding him with the desperate need he should have admitted long ago. But something—the chill in Hiroshi’s tone, his narrowed eyes—stille
d him. Every nerve screamed for Iwata to move, but he was frozen.

  “You know foxes are shape-shifters. Ever since my sister…. I haven’t trusted my own eyes since then.” Hiroshi roughly pushed his hair out of his eyes, and Iwata saw with a jolt that it had been cut. The long shiny mane he’d seen loose only once now hung raggedly just above Hiroshi’s shoulders. “Why are you here, Sho?”

  Iwata realized that he had no idea how to answer Hiroshi’s question. His fingers twitched in frustration. “You cut your hair.”

  For a moment Hiroshi’s eyes widened in surprise. Then his face settled back into stone. “You tracked me all the way here to tell me that?”

  “No!”

  Iwata started. Hiroshi’s head snapped sideways, toward the voice. They’d both forgotten Daigo was there. His broad face flushed red under their combined scrutiny. He bowed.

  “The Lord General was planning to find you, so I badgered him until he allowed me to come along. I wanted to see you again, Uncle.”

  Hiroshi studied him. “You’re… Shiro? No, Daigo. Daigo looked like the prince.”

  The young man nodded, but Iwata saw momentary hurt flash across his face, though surely he hadn’t expected Hiroshi to recognize him after all these years.

  “Yes, Uncle. I want to help you both avenge my mother’s death.”

  Hiroshi studied him in silence. Iwata breathed the damp air. The fog suddenly seemed tangible, choking. Somewhere above them a bird twittered forlornly.

  After a few moments that raked Iwata’s nerves raw, Hiroshi finally sighed. “You have the right to avenge her, even more than I do. If you wish….” He shrugged. “Come with me to the coast, and we’ll seek the creature together.” He glanced at Iwata as if he were an afterthought. But Iwata saw him briefly close his eyes. Hiroshi muttered, “As for my Lord General, he’s most kind to think of me. I can hardly ask him to leave, now he’s traveled so far.”

  “Then we should go,” Iwata growled.

  Hiroshi’s hooded gaze settled on him, then shifted away as Iwata tried to meet his eyes. Hiroshi started off, not checking to be sure they followed.