by Lian Hearn
The rain streamed from the eaves of the hut, churning the ground beneath, running in muddy eddies toward the pool. Matsuda lay on his side, exactly as Shigeru had left him, still asleep but no longer snoring.
Shigeru knelt beside him. The quilts were already wet and the old man’s skin felt clammy.
“Sir! Lord Matsuda!” He shook him gently. To his relief, Matsuda’s eyes flickered, but he did not waken.
There was a slight change in the pattern of the rainfall, and Shigeru’s guide stepped onto the veranda. Also kneeling, he felt for the pulse in the neck.
“What happened?”
“I hit him. We were practicing; he is teaching me the sword.”
“You hit Matsuda? What kind of a novice are you? You look like one of the Otori.”
“I am Otori Shigeru. I have been sent to Terayama for a year; it’s part of my education.”
“Lord Shigeru, I’m honored to meet you,” the man said, with a hint of irony. He did not offer his own name. Bending over Matsuda again, he opened the old man’s eyelids and peered into his eyes. Then he gently felt the contusion on the temple.
“I don’t think you broke the skull. You just knocked him out. He’ll wake up soon. I’ve got some herbs here—dried vervain and willow bark, and other things. Make a tea from them: it will stop the pain and the nausea. Make sure you stay with him. The danger is not so much from the blow as from choking afterward.” He took out a small bag and handed it to Shigeru.
“Thank you,” Shigeru said. “I am extremely grateful to you. Come to me when I return to Hagi and you will be rewarded.”
His voice trailed away; he felt foolish, for what reward could he offer a fox-spirit? Yet when the man was there, he seemed so real, human, and ordinary.
“Maybe one day I will come to Hagi.”
“You will always be welcome. Tell me your name.”
“I have many names. Sometimes people call me the Fox.” He laughed at Shigeru’s expression. “Take care of your teacher.” He bowed deeply, saying, “Lord Otori,” his tone both respectful and mocking. He vanished.
Shigeru carried Matsuda into the hut and set him down on the mattress, built up the fire, and fetched fresh water. He was soaked to the skin. He took off his clothes to dry them and sat naked by the fire until the water boiled. It was not cold; when the rain eased at the end of the afternoon, the heat returned, even more sultry than before.
Just before nightfall, Matsuda began to stir. He seemed to be in some pain. Shigeru quickly brewed the tea and helped the old man sit up and drink it. Matsuda did not speak but patted Shigeru’s hand as if to reassure him. Then he lay down again. The herbs took effect quickly. The old man slept deeply and calmly until dawn.
Shigeru dozed a little but mostly stayed awake thinking about the extraordinary events of the day. He no longer believed the stranger to be a supernatural being. Now that he was thinking more calmly, it was all too clear who the man was—he could only be from the Tribe. He had vanished and reappeared just as his father had described when speaking of the woman he had loved. What an amazing skill to have; how useful it would be; no wonder warlords like the Iida family used such men as spies. How vulnerable his own clan seemed. What defense could there be against such people? The encounter had ignited an intense curiosity in him to find out more about them, to discover how he could protect himself and his people against the Tribe—even if he might use them himself.
He hardly allowed himself to think about the most extraordinary event of all—that he had overcome his teacher in combat; he had knocked out Matsuda Shingen. It seemed even more impossible than the man who could go invisible.
The heat eased a little, a slight breeze sprang up, and birds began to herald the dawn. Shigeru sat cross-legged and began the morning meditation. When he opened his eyes, it was fully light and Matsuda was awake.
“I need to piss,” the old man said. “Help me outside.”
He walked a little unsteadily but otherwise seemed to have recovered. After relieving himself, he went to the spring and rinsed his mouth with water.
“Does your head hurt?” Shigeru said, helping him back to the hut.
“Not much now. Whatever it was you gave me last night worked.”
“I’m so sorry,” Shigeru began.
Matsuda said, “Don’t be sorry. Be proud of yourself. It’s quite an achievement. No one’s done that to me for a long time. Of course, I’m not as young as I used to be.”
“It was a fluke,” Shigeru said.
“I don’t think so. But who was here with you?”
“I met a man in the forest. I ran after the monks and took a wrong turn . . . There was a huge storm . . .”
“You were panicking, in other words,” Matsuda said.
“I thought I’d killed you!”
“If you had, it would only have served me right.” Matsuda laughed. “Nothing to panic about. Who was it, one of the villagers? I must get the ingredients of that tea.”
“I’d never seen him before. I wasn’t even sure he was human. He seemed more like a spirit. Then afterward I realized he must have been from the Tribe.”
“In Heaven’s name,” Matsuda said. “You gave me tea made by one of the Tribe? I’m lucky to be still alive.”
Shigeru thought of poison, thought of the signs he himself had seen of someone searching for aconite and arum, this man or someone like him.
“I’m a fool,” he said. “For some reason, I thought I could trust him.”
“You are too quick to trust,” Matsuda rejoined. “Still, it seems on this occasion no harm was done. That brew is a very effective painkiller. I’d like to know what’s in it.”
“He knew your name.”
“I don’t want to boast—a lot of people know my name. I am not popular with the Tribe. I’ve tried to keep them out of the temple. I don’t like spies. Did he use invisibility?”
Shigeru nodded. “How is it done?”
“It’s a trick, a way of moving that fools the eyes of the watcher. You can’t teach it—it’s inborn, like most of their skills. Training enhances them. From what I’ve heard, a lot of it is like meditation, emptying the mind and concentrating, though the Tribe use cruelty as a teaching tool to silence the conscience and eradicate compassion. They say that the Iida family use some of these methods with their sons, and that Sadamu in particular has benefited from them.”
“The Sadamu that also hoped to learn from you!” Shigeru said.
“Ah, I would never have gone to Inuyama. I don’t like the climate. Anyway, I don’t have to now. I am content with my Otori pupil. In fact, I’m very proud of you.”
“Even though I did everything wrong afterward! In the moment I overcame you, I saw you as a traitor,” Shigeru confessed. “I thought you were part of a conspiracy. . . . It’s too stupid to think about.”
“I was pushing you as hard as I could. I knew there was more in you than you had allowed me to see till now. You have a trusting nature, Lord Shigeru; it’s a virtue but only up to a point. Now you know how to unleash your true power, through suspicion of betrayal and the pure rage that came from it. You can practice on your own today. You have to summon up by will what you discovered through emotion. I am going to rest.”
“We should return to the temple,” Shigeru said, looking at his teacher’s pale face and the growing bruise. “They can take care of you there.”
“It’s not time yet,” Matsuda replied. “I’ll rest for a couple of days; we will spend the Festival of the Dead here and return to the temple before the autumn storms, unless I am summoned earlier. Our Abbot’s health is fragile, as you know. If he should die, I would have to return at once.
“Now we have talked for far too long. We will spend the rest of the day in silence. You can prepare a little soup and then begin your exercises.”
There were many things Shigeru longed to talk about: his thoughts were chasing one another around in his mind. He realized he craved praise, reassurance, and knew that Matsuda had
already given him as much as he was going to. He opened his mouth to say, “Just one more question,” but Matsuda silenced him. “I suggest meditation first, to still your thoughts.”
While he meditated, he looked dispassionately at his actions, seeking to learn from them. He recognized the ability that lay behind his swordplay, as clearly as he saw the immaturity of character that had led to his panic and confusion. Gradually his thoughts calmed, his mind emptied.
In the evening he went out to collect mushrooms for the meal, half hoping to see the man from the Tribe again—the Fox, he thought, smiling. So the Fox roamed these mountains, collecting herbs for medicine and poison. His curiosity had been aroused as much by the man himself as by the mysteries of the Tribe.
I’ll know him if I see him again, he told himself, and felt they would meet again, as if there were some bond between them from a former life. I must find out more about the Tribe, maybe even use them, as the Tohan do.
However, he did not see the Fox again; nor were there any signs of the man’s presence. Matsuda recovered and resumed their daily combats. Shigeru learned to use his newfound strength with greater accuracy; he frequently dominated his teacher but never again struck him so hard.
They spent the days of the Festival of the Dead in fasting and meditation. It was the first time Shigeru had spent this solemn festival away from his family. His father alternated visits to the temples of Tokoji and Daishoin in Hagi and to Yamagata and Terayama. This year he would stay in Hagi. Shigeru pictured his brother and their friends setting lanterns adrift in paper boats on the river, watching the tide take them far out to sea. He saw the view of the bay, the islands rising jagged from the water, lanterns casting their gold light in the blue haze, and felt a pang of homesickness for the place he loved so much.
The forest around him was no less beautiful: he had come to love it, too, as he explored it more, knowing it better; but it was lonely, empty of humankind, and on the nights when the dead revisit the living, it seemed even more solitary.
Lights glimmered in the distance where the villagers lit huge fires to show their dead the way home. Shigeru also made a fire outside the hut, but he did not expect to see his ancestors. They would be where their graves were, in Hagi or at Terayama. Not even the dead would visit them here.
He and Matsuda had hardly spoken for days: combat, exercise, meditation, and the daily chores had all been conducted in silence. So on the second night of the festival Shigeru was surprised when, instead of sleeping immediately after the evening meal, Matsuda told him to light the lamp and make fresh tea.
“We will talk for a while.”
They moved outside onto the small veranda. It was a clear night: the Bear and the Hunter blazed above their heads. Shigeru fetched fresh water and lit an oil lamp with a wood shaving from the fire. He served his teacher and then sat cross-legged on the floor, waiting to hear what Matsuda had to say to him.
“You had many questions before,” Matsuda said. “You may ask them now.”
“I have been thinking about the dead,” Shigeru said. “Are they reborn immediately or do their spirits live on? They revisit us each year—where do they dwell in between? When we worship our ancestors, do they see and hear us?”
“We revere our ancestors as if they still lived,” Matsuda replied. “And we treat all living things with compassion, for into them our own ancestors might have been reborn. The fate from our past lives influences our present life, just as this life will influence our future. We can escape the cycle of birth and death by following the teachings of the Enlightened One. But you are called to another path; you will be the head of an ancient and powerful clan. The safety and well-being of many will lie in your hands. You have to live in the world with all its deceptions and dangers.
“It is no small thing to be born Otori. Your family are the most illustrious in the Three Countries, whatever the Iida may think of themselves. Your lineage is the most ancient: you share the blood of the imperial family. The strengths of your family are courage, compassion, warmth of feeling, fair-mindedness; their weaknesses are recklessness, softheartedness, infatuation, and indecision.”
“Each weakness is the shadow of each strength,” Shigeru said quietly.
“Yes, indeed. You must see how your father’s sense of justice too often leads him into indecisiveness. He sees everyone’s point of view and wants to appear fair to them all. Possibly he cares too much about what people think of him. He desires his brothers’ good opinion—in return, they despise him.”
“Are they also traitors?”
“I believe they would be if they had more courage.”
“If the Tohan are preparing for war, how can we protect the Middle Country?”
“By defeating them. There is no other way. Your father does not want to fight; your uncles are in favor of making concessions in return for peace.”
“What sort of concessions?”
“Ceding territory, for example.”
“Giving up parts of the Middle Country to the Tohan? It’s unthinkable.”
“Many are already thinking it. It’s up to you to persuade them otherwise.”
“I should return to Hagi at once.”
Matsuda chuckled. “Now you are going to have to learn patience.”
Shigeru took a deep breath. His temper had been rising throughout the conversation. Disloyalty, treachery seemed to him the greatest of crimes, and the suspicion that they flourished within his own family made his gullet burn with rage. “If you tell me I must, I will,” he conceded reluctantly.
“Stay, as planned, through the winter. When you return, you will be sixteen. You will have your coming-of-age ceremony and become an adult. You will have more influence then on the elders and your father.”
“Can the elders be trusted?”
“Irie, Mori, Nagai—I would stake my life on their loyalty. Endo and Miyoshi are pragmatists. Their loyalty is first to the clan, and so they will support whoever leads it. When you do return, you must be on your guard. If you advise war with the Tohan, the opposite faction will be tempted to eliminate you, and they will have the backing of the Tohan. Be careful whom you trust. And try not to let anyone from the Tribe into your life.”
“It must be almost impossible to recognize them,” Shigeru said, smiling ruefully.
“They are human. Despite their almost supernatural skills they die like any other man. I believe they can be identified and overcome.”
“My enemy is double—an aggressive, ambitious clan and a tribe of assassins.”
“But you meet them with double weapons—your own character and the love and loyalty of your people.”
“Will these be enough to prevail?”
Matsuda laughed again. “I cannot see into the future. I only know these are enough to start with. You may sleep if you wish now. I will sit for a while in the company of the dead.”
Shigeru was not tired and wanted to keep his teacher talking. “I know nothing of your life, your family,” he said. “Do you have sons, did you ever marry?”
“Of course I married, when I was a young man. My wife died many years ago. We had several children, but none survived childhood. And as far as I know, I have no living offspring. My children are my pupils, the monks who are in my care. I hope I will die and be buried at Terayama.”
“And what made you give up your life as a warrior when you were the greatest fighter the Three Countries has ever known?”
“No one is the greatest,” Matsuda said. “There will always be another greater than you or with greater potential. All my energy and years of my life had gone into one thing—to become an expert in the art of death. It is a terrible thing to imagine oneself the greatest: it gives rise to pride in oneself, envy in others. Young men sought me out to challenge me. I became tired of their foolishness and their courage.” He fell silent. The night insects droned loudly; frogs croaked.
