by Lian Hearn
The news spread at once through the household, and the next day, despite Shigeru’s orders for secrecy, had become widely known throughout Hagi. Rumors proliferated, adding to the unrest of the city. Shigeru’s uncles were forced to deny publicly any involvement in the assassination plan and to receive Shigeru openly and with respect in order to allay the unrest. Nevertheless, disturbances continued throughout the autumn. As a result, his own position became a little less dangerous, and less restricted: permission to travel freely was granted. He still maintained his disguise, however, relishing the freedom and anonymity it gave him.
He had no way of knowing who had been behind the attempt, but given Kenji’s warnings, he had to assume it was Iida. Kenji, he thought, might have confirmed this, but the Fox did not reappear as he had in the sixth month, and though Shigeru thought of writing to him at Yamagata, in the end he did not. It concerned him that he was possibly spied on most of the time, and he became more watchful and secretive himself, but he was reassured also by the fact that the men had waylaid him on his own estate—an obvious place for him to be. They might have ambushed him far more successfully on the lonely mountain paths to Terayama, had they known his every movement. And he was heartened by the support of the farmers, by the realization of the hidden loyalty to himself that lay just below the surface like a vein of coal, ready to burn and forge steel.
He announced his intentions of visiting Eijiro’s estate to bid farewell to his widow and made arrangements for Takeshi to move to Lord Miyoshi’s residence while he was away. If all went well, Takeshi might stay there for the winter.
When the moon returned, he set out for Misumi. Mori Yusuke had not returned from his journey, but before he left, he had entrusted his remaining horses to Shigeru. Shigeru took the oldest colt, which had recently been broken in; he named it Kyu. The horse was lively, full of youth and energy. It was impossible to ride it and feel depressed. Truly, I am not made for despair, Shigeru realized, grateful for the upbringing that had made him so resilient. Even the week he spent at Eijiro’s, though there was grief enough in the deaths of father and sons and the loss of the estate, did not plunge him back into the black mood of the days after Moe’s death. In the well-ordered fields, still maintained despite Eijiro’s passing, he saw a lasting tribute to the man’s foresight and, in the courage of his wife and daughters, testimony to the value of their upbringing.
It will not all be lost forever, he promised silently. I will restore it.
He thought about it constantly, and pieces of strategy began to assemble themselves in the corners of his mind. One of the most important pieces, he knew, would be alliance with the West, with the Arai and the Maruyama. The attempt on his own life had also given him ideas. Iida had attempted to strike at him in the heart of his own country. Could he not strike back in a similar way? Could he bring himself to resort to assassination? Would the Tribe ever work for him as Kenji had once suggested they would? Could he ever afford them?
A few days before the full moon, he left the horse at Misumi and went on foot into the mountains, letting it be known that he was going to look at the high country forests and that he would spend some time in retreat, praying for the souls of the dead. No one seemed to question this. His reputation was already established: he was interested in farming, he was more than usually devout, and he set great store by the proper respect paid to the dead.
The western border of the Middle Country ran along a narrow valley between two steep mountain ranges. Farther south, the border was guarded: local lords demanded taxes and tariff fees on goods and merchandise, and spies kept a close watch on travelers. Shigeru had written authority from his clan to travel where he pleased, but he did not want his movements known, and planned to get across the border in the wild mountainous country at the head of the river that flowed all the way north to Hagi.
He had some knowledge of the district on the lower eastern slopes from his previous visits to Eijiro, when they had ridden into the mountains and Eijiro had shown him the different trees grown for timber—cedar and pine, zelkova, paulownia and cypress. But once he was above the level of the forest, following narrow tracks over stony crags, he was in unknown country, finding his way by the sun during the day and by the stars at night. The weather remained fine, day after day of clear autumn skies as the leaves changed color, dyeing the forests red, the stain spreading perceptibly every day from the summit of the ranges downward.
He had brought food with him and also ate what the land provided—chestnuts, cobs, and mulberries. Some nights, early on, he found shelter in an isolated farmhouse. But in the high mountain there were no dwellings, and it was too cold to sleep outside so he walked all night as the moon waxed fuller.
He descended the first range and crossed the river. The area seemed deserted: no sign of any habitation, no smell of smoke. The river here was fast and shallow, hardly more than a stream, babbling to itself as it leaped over boulders. He slept a little in the middle of the day, warmed by the sun, but by nightfall the weather showed signs of changing. The wind swung round to the northwest; clouds banked up on the horizon. He came through a pass and stood on the highest rock to look toward the north, all the way to the coast. The sea was a dull violet smudge on the horizon beneath the solid gray sky. He knew he would be looking at Oshima, the island volcano, but he could not make out its shape. To his left, the range fell more gently, becoming the fertile land of the West, warmed by the coastal “black current,” protected by its mountains. Far away to the southwest lay the city and castle of Maruyama. Harada had told him the shrine she was visiting was less than a day’s walk from the pass. He scanned the forest below; in the far distance smoke hung in the valley, but otherwise, there was no sign of habitation, no curve of roof emerging from the deep green. On this side of the range, the autumn was slower to place its mark on the trees: only a few maples on the highest slopes had started to turn.
Just before dusk he smelled smoke and another scent that brought a rush of water into his mouth and made his stomach growl; he followed both smells warily and came upon a small hut made from rough-hewn branches and bark.
Two men were roasting game birds on a fire, the flames bright in the fading light. Shigeru greeted them, startling them; their hands went to their knives, and for a moment it seemed he would have to fight them. Guilt made them touchy and suspicious, but when they saw Jato, they were more inclined to placate the solitary warrior.
He asked them if they knew the temple, Seisenji, and they gave him directions.
“But surely you won’t walk through the night?” the older man said.
“I’m afraid the weather is changing,” Shigeru said.
“You’re right! It’ll rain tomorrow. Probably after midday.” He glanced at the younger man. They could be father and son, Shigeru thought. “Stay here tonight. You can share our catch. We’ve been lucky this week.”
They had many birds—quail, pigeons, and pheasants—hanging by the neck on cords from the rafters of the hut. The quail they supplied to a traveler who transported them to a merchant in Kibi. The rest they dried and salted to feed their families. They were reluctant to reveal too much about their hunting, and he gathered that it was not exactly allowed, but the local lord overlooked it when it suited him.
The pigeon’s flesh was dark and strong-flavored. While sucking the bones, he asked the men if they had heard of the Battle of Yaegahara. They shook their heads: they lived in their isolated village or on the mountain, where little news penetrated from the outside world.
He slept lightly, not quite trusting them. It was a cold night, and the younger man got up several times to put more wood on the fire. Shigeru woke each time and lay for a while thinking about this chance meeting and how his life must be from now on, needing help and support as all men do, yet never able to trust anyone; relying on his own skill and watchfulness to discern threat and defend himself against it, but avoiding living in constant fear and suspicion, which would destroy him more slowly than the swor
d but as effectively.
They rose in the gray dawn, the men keen to return home before the rain began. They hung the strings of birds around their necks and waists, wrapped their loincloths and leggings over them, and covered their upper bodies with loose cloaks.
“Keeps you warm!” The younger man laughed, and pretended to shiver. “Feels like my wife’s fingers on my balls!”
Shigeru could imagine the caress of the soft down against the skin.
They walked together for several hours until the track forked at the head of two narrow valleys. Here they parted, the hunters going north, Shigeru south.
He thanked them and wished them well; they responded cheerfully and briefly, hardly breaking their stride, not bowing or using deferential language. They did not seem in the least curious about him. He was glad they had no interest in the world beyond, and that they did not care who he was.
He had not gone far down the track before the rain started, at first a light drizzle, just enough to make the path slippery, then, as the wind picked up, heavier and drenching. The wide conical hat protected his head and shoulders, but his legs were soaked, his sandals muddied and falling apart. He tried to quicken his pace, anxious to reach Seisenji before nightfall, but the track became more treacherous—in places water ran down it like a river—and he began to fear the deluge would force him to spend the night in the forest. He started to question what he was doing as the rain dripped from his hat and his feet lost all feeling. What did he expect from the meeting—if indeed they ever met? Why was he making this journey, unpleasant and dangerous as it was? Would she come at all? Would she come only to betray him?
He remembered vividly the moment when he had longed to slide his hands under her hair and feel the shape of her head, but he sternly tried to put this from him. She had rebuked him for seeing her only as a woman, for not taking her seriously as a ruler: he would not make that mistake again. If she were there at all . . . Anyway, he wanted no more involvement with women, dreading the pain and disappointment that passion dealt out—but her hair!
It was almost dark when the mountain path, now resembling a waterfall more than anything else, dropped steeply down to join a wider, more level road that led up a slight slope. At the top of the slope, almost hidden by the driving rain and the dark cedars, was a small building with curved roof and deep eaves. Four horses, one a pretty mare, backs to the wind, were tethered beneath a barely adequate shelter roofed with straw that shook in the gusts of wind, shedding stalks and chaff like huge raindrops.
He stopped at the steps and removed his sandals and hat, sodden as they were. Despite the rain, the doors were all open. He stepped up onto the veranda and looked in.
The rain streamed from the eaves and splashed up from the ground, enclosing the building like a living curtain. Lamps were lit inside, but the main room of the temple was empty, the floor bare boards. It seemed hardly used: a wooden statue of the Enlightened One sat on a small platform; in front of him vases held fresh flowers, the yellow-flowered silver leaf and branches of red-berried sacred bamboo. There were few other decorations or artifacts, only, below the rafters, votive pictures of oxen and horses.
He called softly and heard her voice speak to her companion Sachie, heard the woman get to her feet and approach the doorway. She turned and whispered back into the interior room.
“It is he.”
He made a sign to Sachie, fearing she would speak his name but she said simply, “Come in. We are expecting you,” and bobbed her head. He remembered her as an elegant and refined woman of high rank, but now she looked younger and less polished, and the clothes she wore were plain, cut like a man’s. The interior room was matted, and he hesitated on the threshold, not wanting to sit down in his wet, muddied clothes.
Lady Maruyama sat by a small lamp, but it was too dark inside to see her face. She stood and approached him. She, also, was in men’s clothes, made from dark cloth, her hair tied back with cords. In contrast with Sachie, her garments made her look older, taller, in every way stronger, but they could not dispel the mystery of her long hair or the new spareness that grief had brought to her face, revealing the beauty of the bones beneath the white skin. Her look was frank; her gaze direct and open.
“I am so glad to see you. Thank you for coming all this way. You must be tired. And you are wet through. Sachie, can we provide dry clothes?”
“I will ask the groom,” the woman replied and went quietly from the room through the worship hall to the veranda. After a few moments she returned with a dry robe that smelled faintly of horses, as if it had recently been unpacked from a saddle pannier.
Shigeru went with Sachie to the other side of the hall, where there was a similar space divided into storerooms and an office with matted floor. The temple’s records were stacked in moldering piles, and a cracked inkstone lay abandoned on a low writing table.
“Does no one live here?” he asked.
“The local people believe this temple to be haunted,” she replied. “They won’t come near it. Priests are driven mad here. They kill themselves or run away. No one will disturb us; and if anyone sees us, they will think we are ghosts.”
She brought a bowl of cold water to the veranda, and he washed his face, hands, and feet.
“I will prepare something to eat,” she murmured. After she had gone, he stripped off his clothes, dried himself, and put on the borrowed robe. It had been made for a smaller man. He tied it as best he could, put Jato into the sash, and his knife inside the breast. It was becoming colder, and despite the dry clothes, his skin was beginning to tremble.
He returned to the matted room, and Lady Maruyama indicated that he should sit. She must have brought some furnishings with her on the packhorse, for there were crimson silk cushions on the floor that surely did not belong to the temple; a sword lay next to her.
“Thank you for your message,” he said. “I was very sorry to hear of your son’s death, and so soon after your husband.”
“I will tell you about it later,” she replied. “You have also suffered terrible loss.”
“I felt you understood, better than anyone,” he said.
She smiled. “I hope you did not lose everyone you loved.”
“No,” he replied, after thinking about it for a moment. “My brother still lives, my mother, my teacher. I have at least one friend. I have a lot to thank you for,” he added. “If you had joined Iida last year, the Otori would have been completely destroyed.”
“We had made an agreement. I gave you my word. I will never enter into an alliance with the Tohan.”
“Yet our acquaintance, Arai Daiichi, is now serving the Noguchi, whose name has come to mean ‘traitor’ throughout the Middle Country.”
“Arai had no alternative. He was lucky not to be forced to take his own life. I believe he is biding his time, as you are. We keep in touch as much as we can, through Muto Shizuka.”
“It was she who betrayed us to Iida,” Shigeru said. “Presumably, Arai does not know, since they are still together and she has borne him a son.”
“You are angry about that!”
“I am angry about many things,” Shigeru said. “I am learning patience. But I would not trust the Muto woman not to betray us again. Do not tell Arai about this meeting.”
Sachie came quietly into the room with a tray on which stood two bowls filled with a kind of stew, mostly vegetables, with egg stirred through it. She returned in a few moments with a teakettle and cups.
“It is very plain,” she apologized. “We had to bring everything with us on the horses. But Bunta will go and find more food if the rain stops tomorrow.”
“I should return to Misumi tomorrow,” Shigeru said.
“Then let us eat quickly, for we have much to talk about,” Naomi said.
He found he was ravenous, hard put to eat slowly, but she ate sparingly, as if she had little appetite, and watched him all the time.
When they had finished, Sachie took the bowls away; the young man, Bunt
a, brought in a small brazier with glowing charcoal, and then also retired. The rain continued to fall heavily; the wind soughed in the cedars. Night pressed in on them. The old building was full of strange sounds, as if its many ghosts talked in scratchy voices, their mouths full of dust.
