by Lian Hearn
“I know you think I am running wild,” he said quietly to Shigeru. “Some of it is real but like you I also play a role that is not my true self. I can’t pretend I don’t enjoy a lot of it, though! It must be more fun than being a farmer!”
Later that afternoon Shigeru was walking through the fields, thinking partly of the sesame crop and partly with some relief of Takeshi, when a man stepped out from the shade of a small group of peach trees and spoke his name.
He recognized the voice at once—his retainer, the warrior Harada—and turned toward him with joy, for he had not seen him since before the battle and had believed him to be dead. Yet the man who dropped to his knees before him was almost unrecognizable. His head and face were covered in a scarf of some deep yellow-brown material, and he wore the short jerkin of a laborer. His legs and feet were bare. Shigeru momentarily thought he had been mistaken, but the man raised his head and spoke without getting up. “Lord Otori. It is I, Harada.”
“I had heard nothing of you and assumed you were dead,” Shigeru exclaimed. “It’s a great joy to see you, but you are so changed I hardly knew you.”
“Indeed my whole life has changed.” Harada spoke quietly and humbly, like a supplicant or a beggar. “I am glad to find you alive. I was afraid you would have had to give in to the pressure to take your own life.”
“Many people think I should have joined the dead,” Shigeru said. “But I have my reasons for remaining with the living. You must come to my house. We’ll eat together, and I’ll tell you them. Where have you been all this time, and why, may I ask, the change in your appearance and dress?”
He could see now that Harada carried no sword, nor, apparently, any other weapon.
“It is better that I don’t come to your house. I don’t want it to be known that I am in Hagi. Indeed, I can be of greater service to you if I remain unrecognized. Is there somewhere we can talk?” He dropped his voice further. “I have a message for you.”
“There is a small shrine at the top of the valley. It’s deserted except during days of festival. I am walking that way.”
“I will meet you there.” Harada lowered his head to the ground, remaining there while Shigeru walked on.
Shigeru was both pleased and disturbed by the meeting, delighted that Harada was still alive, puzzled by his strange appearance and his lack of weapons. He did not go directly to the shrine but continued his careful inspection of the land, taking the time to speak to the farmers, who at that time of year were chopping the stubble and bean straw for fodder and collecting fallen leaves from the oak coppices to use as compost. Sesame needed a warm southerly aspect: in the rugged country south of the city such fields were scarce and already used for beans and vegetables. The farmers grew enough of these for their own needs, but sesame would be a product they could supply to merchants in the city or directly to warriors’ households. It would give them income, access to coins, and increased power over their lives.
Eijiro had written, as if in a direct message, Whenever sesame has been introduced, I have seen an improvement in the living conditions of the villagers and an increase in their well-being, including a greater interest in education. Several villages have even been inspired to have their young men taught to read at schools established in the temples.
A place like this might become a school, Shigeru thought as he approached the shrine. It was almost empty, apart from one young man of about fourteen years, the son of the priest from the nearest village, who kept guard. The villagers stored various farming implements there, hoes, staves, and axes, as well as firewood, stacked neatly against the southern wall to dry out before winter. The boy was sitting on the faded wooden veranda, eating from a bowl. Behind him a young girl, obviously his sister, was preparing tea on the hearth. Shigeru could imagine her walking through the forest from her home to bring her older brother his supper.
He had spoken to the boy before and now said, after greeting him, “Someone is coming here to meet me. I will wait inside.”
“My sister will bring tea,” the boy replied, ducking his head but not making any other obeisance, as if he knew of Shigeru’s desire for informality and anonymity. Ever since Kenji’s visits during the plum rains, Shigeru had noticed among the people he met in field and forest similar tiny indications of Loyalty to the Heron.
He removed his sandals and stepped into the darkened interior. The floor had been recently swept, but the air smelled musty. The shrine felt empty, as though the god slept elsewhere and returned only when awakened by the music of the festival.
He found himself wondering about the existence of the gods. Could they really be awakened or swayed by the chanting and prayers of men? This part of the forest, with its small grove, had a feeling of peace and tranquillity that was almost numinous. Did that mean it was truly a place where a god dwelled?
His musings were interrupted by the boy’s voice, followed by Harada’s. After a few moments the girl came into the shrine, carrying a tray with two wooden cups.
“Your visitor is here, sir.” She set the tray on the floor and, when Harada came in and knelt, placed a cup before him and one in front of Shigeru. Harada unwound the head covering, revealing a terrible scar that covered one side of his face. He had lost the eye, and the whole cheek seemed to have been cut away. The girl flinched at the sight of him and turned her eyes away.
“Please call me if you need more tea,” she whispered and left them.
Harada drained the cup at a gulp, causing Shigeru to wonder if he had eaten or drunk anything that day, and then reached inside his jerkin and brought out a small flat package.
“I am to give Lord Otori this to prove my message is genuine.”
Shigeru took it. The wrapping was of a silk as fine as gossamer, faded gray, very old. A faint smell of incense clung to it. He untied it and took from inside a small folded piece of paper. Inside this was a dried fern shoot, perfect in every detail yet, like the silk, faded in color.
“You have been in Maruyama?” he said quietly.
Harada said, “The message is that there is much the two parties need to discuss in person and in secret. The eastern part of the other domain needs inspection. The other person involved will be just across the border.”
He named a mountain shrine, Seisenji, and spoke of the pilgrimage that the “other person” intended to make while in the district.
“At the next full moon,” he added. “What reply should I take back?”
“I will be there,” Shigeru said. He was about to ask more: why Harada had gone to Maruyama after the battle, how he had survived the injury, when there was a disturbance outside. The girl screamed loudly and angrily, the boy was shouting; there was a rush and tramp of feet on the boards and three armed men burst into the temple.
But for the dimness of the light, Shigeru would have had no chance, but in the second it took for them to adjust their eyes and recognize him, he was on his feet and Jato was in his hand.
He did not wait to inquire what their purpose was—he had no doubt they had come expressly to kill him; they each had long swords, drawn and ready. Their faces were hidden except for their eyes, and their garments were unmarked. He was outnumbered—Harada, he knew, was unarmed—and speed was his only advantage. To kill the first two was almost like a reflex. The blade moved of its own volition in its snakelike way, in two jabbing strokes: the downward to the left that cut the first man deep in side and belly, the upward to the right that whipped back across the second’s throat. The third assailant was a step behind them and could see better. His blade came whistling down at Shigeru’s neck, but Shigeru had raised Jato in front of his face and was able to parry the blow and force the blade away.
His adversary was fast, strong, and cunning—a fighter of great ability, possibly the most skillful Shigeru had ever encountered apart from Matsuda Shingen. In brief moments between the complete concentration of the fight, he wondered why Harada remained apart from it. This was no ordinary challenge but an unprovoked surprise a
ttack. There was no honor involved. As he felt himself begin to tire, he wondered if Harada had in fact betrayed him, had lured him to this place precisely for such an attack. But the fern, no one knew of that—had she betrayed him? The thought filled him with such rage and despair that it gave him supernatural power. He drove at his opponent with fury, forcing the man to retreat a few steps onto the veranda. Here the boy, with great resourcefulness, thrust a pole between his legs and tripped him up, while the girl threw the teakettle full in his face.
Shigeru finished him off, Jato taking his head. He was astonished by the intervention of the pair—normally villagers took no part in warriors’ battles, large or small. He would have expected these two to run away and hide. The boy was trembling, perhaps partly at his own temerity, but he said to his sister, “Go and tell Father,” and then, “Are you hurt, Lord Ot—” He broke off. “Sir, I mean!”
“No. I thank you.” He was breathing hard, still in the grip of the shock and intensity of the sudden attack. “Help me carry the bodies outside. And bring water. We will wash the blood before it stains the floor.”
“How did they dare!” the boy exclaimed. “To attack you within the shrine! Truly the god punished them!”
“With your help,” Shigeru added.
“It was wrong of me! I should not have interfered. But I was so angry.”
With Harada’s help, they dragged the bodies beyond the shrine precinct, and the boy brought water from the spring and sluiced the floor. The dead men stared with sightless eyes while their blood turned the clear water pink.
“Who were they?” Shigeru said to Harada.
“Lord Otori; I have no idea. This had nothing to do with me, I swear it.”
“Then why did you bring me to this place? And leave me to fight them alone?”
“You suggested the meeting place,” Harada said hurriedly. “I could not have known—”
“You had time to inform your accomplices.”
“I did not! I would never betray you. You know who sent me. Sh—they are your ally. They have already proved that.”
“Yet you stood aside and did nothing.”
“This is what I wished to explain to Lord Otori. There is this matter I have to speak to you about.” Harada glanced around—the sound of scrubbing came from the shrine hall where the boy was fully occupied. The girl had not yet returned with her father. Harada said swiftly, “I have to ask you to release me from your service.”
“You seem to have released yourself already!” Shigeru accused him. “No arms, no fighting spirit. What has happened to you?”
“I have taken a vow never to kill again,” Harada replied quietly. “That is why I ask you to release me. I can no longer serve you as a warrior should.”
“So you have become one of the Hidden,” Shigeru said. He recalled how this thought had occurred to him months ago, before the battle: he had wondered then what effect it would have on the allegiance of a warrior like Harada.
“I was wounded at Yaegahara,” Harada said, touching his empty eyesocket. “When I lay near death, I had a vision. A being called to me out of a white light and told me I was to live and to serve only him. I felt God had spoken to me. It seemed a miracle that I was not discovered and killed by the Tohan, a miracle that I recovered—proof of the truth of the vision. I made my way to Maruyama and found Nesutoro and Mari. They taught me about the Secret God and gave me rebirth in their custom through water. I took the name Tomasu, after the man I carried on my back. Forgive me, Lord Otori. I cannot serve both the Secret One and you. I will never kill again; nor am I permitted to kill myself. I will understand if you feel it necessary to take my life, and I pray that the Secret One will forgive you.”
Shigeru listened to this speech with mounting consternation. Harada was obviously completely sincere: in the past he had believed the man to be dogged in his devotion. Out of all the men he had known, Harada had a single-mindedness and simplicity about him: he was not given to fanciful imaginings; only the deepest conviction could lead him to take this extraordinary step and ask to be released from his allegiance. Only such a conviction, verging on madness, could make him stand by passively while his liege lord, the head of his clan, was attacked and nearly murdered.
His feelings also included embarrassment and an obscure sense of shame. His own warrior had failed him, while two peasant children had come to his aid. Truly his world had been turned upside down! And Harada’s world as well. But how could the man bear to live under such humiliation? It would surely be doing him a favor to release him into death, where he could commune with white lights and secret gods as much as he liked.
Harada seemed to read his thoughts and extended his neck. His eyes were closed; he said a few words quietly, and Shigeru recalled hearing them before, spoken by Nesutoro at the time of death of his wife and children and friends—the prayers the Hidden speak at the moment of their passing. He remembered his insight that the pruned bush grows more vigorously. Despite Iida’s fiercest attempts to eradicate them, the Hidden still spread; their numbers increased. He had thought it an obscure belief of the downtrodden, the lowest levels of society: but it had emerged in one of his own warriors.
His hand had been on Jato’s hilt, and he had been about to wield it. But now he let his hand drop to his side.
“I ask one final service of you,” he said. “Take my reply back. Once that is done, I release you from all obligations to me. You are no longer part of the Otori clan.”
The words struck him as appalling. He had never said them to anyone in his life. Harada had made himself masterless, a man of the waves, as it was said, by his own choice.
“There will be other ways I can serve you,” Harada murmured.
“Go now,” Shigeru ordered him, “before anyone else knows you came. Farewell.”
Harada got to his feet, muttering words of thanks, and walked swiftly away. For a while silence returned to the shrine, apart from the splash of water and the hollow echo of the bucket, the wind in the oaks, and the rustle as leaves fell. A thrush sang loudly. The air was growing cold, almost as if there would be a frost.
In the distance, Shigeru could hear people approaching. The young girl came running up the hill, followed by her father and most of the men of the village. They carried sticks, staves, and mattocks, and their faces were set in anger.
“These men came to the village earlier,” the priest said. “They asked for Lord Otori. We told them nothing, except to look for him in Hagi. But they must have hidden in the forest and followed you here.”
“Who would dare to do such a thing!” one of the younger men exclaimed.
“We know who would dare!” another replied, raising his sickle. “We should go to Hagi ourselves and protest.”
Shigeru did not recognize the dead men. They wore no crests on their clothes, and when the bodies were stripped, they had no tattoos or other marks save the scars of old wounds. Kenji’s warning came back vividly to him.
“Could they have been bandits?” he asked the priest. If bands of masterless men were operating openly so close to Hagi, they would have to be dealt with.
“I suppose it’s possible,” the man replied. “Many warriors were left without lords or land after Yaegahara. But we have not been attacked; nor have we heard of any such bands in these mountains. I am afraid you were their chosen target,” he added. “We will show those in Hagi that such actions will not be tolerated in the Middle Country.”
The men around him shouted their agreement and seemed set to march to Hagi at once, giving Shigeru even more cause for astonishment. It was surely a result of the upheaval of Yaegahara, and one that no one had foreseen: instead of being cowed by the defeat, the remaining Otori farmers were defiant; they would take up arms themselves rather than be handed over passively to the Tohan.
He dissuaded them from taking any action. Instructing them to arrange for the burial of the dead, he returned home. By the time he reached the house, night had fallen; the moon was one night past
full. The air was drier and much colder than the previous night, and the moonlight was no longer golden but pale and ghostly, the shadows suggesting the darkness that lay behind the world of appearances. Out of the day’s events, the assassination attempt seemed the least astonishing. He had not even paid attention to the bloodstains on his clothes until Chiyo exclaimed in horror when she came to the door to welcome him, a lamp in her hand.
