by Lian Hearn
Mostly Tomasu obeyed him, but one evening early in the ninth month he disappeared into the forest, telling his mother he was going to look for mushrooms. Shimon, returning wearily from a distant field where they had been harvesting the last of the beans, heard his wife’s voice echoing through the valley.
“Tomasu! Come home!”
Shimon sat heavily on the board step of the house; he was stiff all over and his joints ached. The night air felt frosty; winter would come soon.
“I swear I’ll tear him into eight pieces,” Sara grumbled as she brought water for her husband to wash.
“Unh!” he grunted, amused, knowing she would never carry out that threat.
“He said he was going for mushrooms, but it’s just an excuse!”
Their older daughter came running up to the house. Her eyes were bright with excitement, her cheeks glowing pink from the cold air. “Father! Father! Tomasu is coming and there is someone with him!”
Shimon stood, startled. His wife stared toward the mountain, shading her eyes.
The light was fading into dusk. Tomasu appeared out of the darkness, leading a short, stocky man who carried a heavy pack in a bamboo frame on his back. As they crossed the last dike, Tomasu shouted, “I found him on the mountain! He was lost!”
“No need to tell the whole world,” Shimon muttered, but already people were emerging from their houses to stare at the stranger. Shimon glanced at them; he had known them all his life; they were the only people he had known, apart from the last stranger who had come out of the forest and caused such grief. Shimon knew of course which families were Hidden and which were not, but to an outsider they were indistinguishable.
Tomasu brought the man up to the step. “I told him we would feed him. He can stay the night with us, and tomorrow I’ll show him the path to Hinode. He has come from Inuyama.”
The boy’s face was alight with the thrill of it. “I found mushrooms too,” he announced, handing the bundle over to his mother.
“I’m grateful to your son,” the man said, easing the pack from his back and setting it down on the step. “I was heading for the village called Hinode, but I’ve never been this way before. I was completely lost.”
“No one ever comes here,” Shimon replied cautiously.
The stranger looked around. A small crowd had gathered in front of the house; they stared with deep and undisguised interest but kept their distance. Shimon saw them suddenly through the other man’s eyes: their old, patched clothes, bare legs and feet, thin faces and lean bodies. “You can understand why; life is harsh here.”
“But even the harshest life needs some relaxation, some adornment,” the man said, a wheedling note entering his voice. “Let me show you what I carry in my pack. I’m a peddler. I have needles and knives, threads and cord, even a few pieces of cloth, new and not-so-new.” He turned and beckoned to the villagers. “Come and look!”
He began to unwrap the bundles that filled the bamboo frame.
Shimon laughed. “Don’t waste your time! You don’t give those things away surely? We have nothing to spare to give you in exchange.”
“No coins?” the man asked. “No silver?”
“We have never seen either,” Shimon replied.
“Well, I’ll take tea or rice.”
“We eat mainly millet and barley; our tea is made from twigs from the forest.”
The peddler stopped his unwrapping. “You have nothing to barter? How about a night’s lodging and a bowl of millet and a cup of twig tea?” He chuckled. “It sounds like riches to a man who was facing a cold night on the hard ground.”
“Of course you are welcome to stay with us,” Shimon said, “but we do not expect payment.” He addressed his daughter, who had been staring at the peddler without moving. “Maruta, bring more water for our guest. Tomasu, take our visitor’s belongings inside. Wife, we will be one extra for the evening meal.”
He felt a moment of sorrow as his stomach reminded him what that one extra mouth to feed would mean, but he put the feeling from him. Wasn’t one of the old teachings about welcoming strangers, who might be angels in disguise?
He shooed the rest of the villagers away, seemingly ignoring their murmured pleas to at least be allowed to look at the needles, the cloth, the knives, all precious items to them, but inwardly wondering if he might perhaps secure a few needles for the women, something pretty for the girls. . . .
His wife was adding the mushrooms to the soup; the inside of the house was smoky and warm. Outside it was growing colder by the minute; he thought again that they would have the first frost that night.
“You would indeed have been cold sleeping outside,” he remarked as his wife poured the soup into the old wooden bowls.
The youngest child, Madaren, innocently began to say the first prayer over the food. Sara put out a hand to hush her, but the peddler very quietly finished her words and then spoke the second prayer.
There was a long moment of silence, and then Shimon whispered, “You are one of us?”
The peddler nodded. “I did not know there were any here; I had never heard of this village.” He drank his soup noisily. “Be thankful no one else knows of your existence, for Iida Sadamu hates us and many have died in Inuyama, even as far west as Noguchi and Yamagata in the Middle Country. If Iida ever succeeds in conquering the Three Countries, he will wipe us out.”
“We are no threat to Lord Iida or to anyone,” Sara said. “And we are safe here. My husband and Isao, our leader, are respected; they help everyone. Everyone likes us; no one will harm us here.”
“I pray that he will protect you,” the peddler said.
Shimon noticed the puzzlement in his daughters’ eyes. “We are safe under his protection,” he said swiftly, dreading seeing that puzzlement turn to fear. “Like the little chicks under the mother hen’s wings.”
When the sparse meal was finished, the peddler insisted on showing them his wares, saying, “You must choose something: it will be payment, as I said.”
“It is not necessary,” Shimon replied politely, but he was curious to see what else the man carried, and he was still thinking about the needles; they were so useful, so easily lost or broken, so hard to replace.
Sara brought a lamp. They rarely lit them, usually going to bed as soon as darkness fell. The unusual light, the precious objects made them all excited. The little girls stared with shining eyes as the peddler unwrapped squares of woven cloth in pretty patterns, needles, a small doll carved from wood, spoons made of red lacquer, skeins of colored thread, a bolt of indigo-dyed hemp cloth, and several knives, one of which was more like a short sword, though it had a plain hilt and no scabbard.
Shimon could not help noticing that Tomasu’s eyes were drawn to it and that, as the boy leaned forward into the light to look more closely, his right hand seemed to curve as though the sword were already settling against the line across his palm.
The peddler was watching him, a slight frown between his eyes. “You like it? You should not!”
“Why do you carry such instruments of murder?” Sara said quietly.
“People offer me things in exchange,” he replied, lifting the sword carefully and rewrapping it. “I’ll sell it somewhere.”
“Why don’t we have weapons?” Tomasu whispered. “We would not be so defenseless then against those who seek to kill us.”
“The Secret One is our defense,” Shimon said.
“It is better to die ourselves than to take the life of another,” Sara added. “We have taught you that all your life.”
The boy flushed a little under their rebukes and did not reply.
“Did that knife kill someone?” Maruta asked, recoiling slightly as if it were a snake.
“That is what it is made for,” Shimon told her.
“Or to kill yourself with,” the peddler said and, seeing the children’s astonished eyes, could not resist embellishing. “Warriors think it is honorable in certain circumstances to take their own lives. They cu
t their bellies open with a sword like this one!”
“It is a terrible sin,” Sara murmured, and taking Maruta’s hand, she traced the sign of the Hidden on it. “May he protect us not only from death but from the sin of killing!”
The men whispered their assent, but Tomasu said, “We are not likely to kill; we have no enemies here and no weapons.” Then he seemed to become aware of his mother’s disapproval. “I pray, too, that we may never have either,” he said seriously.
Sara poured tea for everyone, and they ended the evening with a final prayer for the coming of the kingdom of peace. The peddler gave the doll to Madaren and to Maruta some red cords for her hair. Shimon asked for needles and received five.
The next morning before he left, the peddler insisted on leaving the hemp cloth. “Have your wife make you a new robe.”
“It is too valuable,” Shimon remonstrated. “We have done so little for you.”
“It’s heavy,” the man replied. “You’ll be saving me the trouble of carrying it farther. I’m grateful to you, and we are fellow-believers, brethren.”
“Thank you,” Shimon said, taking it gratefully. He had never owned anything so costly. “Will you return here? You are welcome to stay with us at any time.”
“I will try to come again, but it won’t be for months. Next year or the year after.”
“Where will you go from here?” Shimon asked.
“I was going to try to get to Hinode, but I think I’ll give up that plan. I want to be in the West next year. If your son can show me the way back to the river, the Inugawa, I can get to Hofu by ship before winter comes.”
“Do you travel throughout the Three Countries?”
“I have been all over; I have even been to Hagi.” The peddler picked up the frame, and Shimon helped fix it on his back.
“I have never even heard of Hagi,” he admitted.
“It is the main city of the Otori, who were defeated by Iida at the Battle of Yaegahara. You must have heard of that!”
“Yes, we heard of it,” Shimon said. “How terrible the struggles between the clans are!”
“May He protect us from them,” the peddler said. He was silent for a few moments, then seemed to shake himself.
“Well, I must go. Thank you again, and take care of yourselves.”
Both men looked around for Tomasu. Shimon noted with approval that he was already at work, gathering fallen leaves to spread on the empty fields, which were white with frost. He was about to call him when the peddler remarked, “He does not look like you. Is he your own son?”
“Yes,” Shimon heard himself say, and even added, “He takes after my wife’s father.” He was suddenly uneasy at the man’s curiosity and garrulity. “I will show you the way myself,” he said. He was afraid that if Tomasu left with the peddler he might never come back.
44
After her daughter, Mariko, went to Inuyama as a hostage at the age of seven, Maruyama Naomi traveled twice yearly to Iida Sadamu’s city, now recognized as the capital of the Three Countries. Sometimes when the weather was settled, she overcame her fears of the sea and took a boat from Hofu; more often she went by way of Yamagata, frequently stopping for several days there in order to visit the temple at Terayama, and then following the highway to Inuyama. She rode on horseback through her own domain to the western border of the Middle Country, but from there on traveled in a palanquin, careful to present herself as a fragile woman, no threat to the warlord who now held her daughter and would use her in any way he could to gain control over her domain and over the West. Iida was arming and training more men, forcing more of the smaller families to submit to him or be annihilated. Mostly they submitted but reluctantly; risings against Iida erupted frequently among both warriors and farmers, leading to increased suppression and persecution, and the Seishuu were increasingly concerned that he would take by force what he could see no way to gain through marriage.
Iida made a point of always receiving her himself when she came to Inuyama, of treating her with great courtesy, heaping gifts on her, flattering and praising her. She found his attentions distasteful yet could not avoid them without insulting him. Each time she saw her daughter, Mariko had grown; she took after her father, would not be called beautiful but had his kindness and intelligence, and did her utmost to spare her mother pain. In company she seemed resigned to her fate but wept silently in private, struggling to control her feelings and begging her mother’s forgiveness. She was homesick for Maruyama, for its gentler climate and for the freedom she had known in childhood. In Inuyama, though Lady Iida treated her kindly, she was, like all women in the deep interior, always afraid of the sudden rages of the warlord and the brutality of his retainers.
Naomi refined the art of hiding her feelings, of appearing to be pliable and submissive while retaining the independence and autonomy of her clan and her country. She would give no one any excuse to kill her or usurp her. Carefully and methodically she built up a network of support within her domain and throughout the West. She traveled a great deal, from one side of the Three Countries to the other, in spring and autumn, usually in some splendor with her senior retainer Sugita Haruki and at least twenty men at arms, as well as her companion, Sachie, and other women; sometimes less ostentatiously, with only Sachie and a handful of men. Often the demands of government meant Sugita could serve her best by staying in Maruyama.
Occasionally Naomi went by way of Shirakawa and Noguchi. Her mother’s sister was married to Lord Shirakawa, and strong bonds of affection tied the two women; both of them had daughters who were hostages, for the Shirakawa’s eldest daughter, Kaede, had been sent to Noguchi castle when she turned seven. There were fears that the girl was not well treated there: the Noguchi, besides being traitors who had caused the downfall of the Otori, had the reputation of cruelty. Lord Noguchi, it was said, strove to impress Iida by equaling him in brutality. The year Mariko turned eleven and Kaede thirteen (and Tomasu in Mino fifteen), Lady Maruyama visited the castle and was disturbed to find there was no sign of the Shirakawa girl among the women of the deep interior. When she made inquiries, replies were evasive, even dismissive, and her fears intensified. She noticed Arai Daiichi among the castle guard. Though his father was in ill health back in Kumamoto and he had three younger brothers ready to dispute the domain, he had not been allowed to return home; it seemed he would lose his inheritance by default, Iida’s punishment for the approaches he had made to Otori Shigeru, before Yaegahara, nine years ago.
Naomi was staying in one of the mansions that belonged to Noguchi yet lay beyond the castle walls. The breeze was warm and soft, the cherry blossoms in the gardens on the point of bursting into flower. She was restless and almost febrile. The onset of spring had unsettled her; her very existence seemed intolerable to her. She slept badly, tormented by desire, longing for Shigeru’s presence, not knowing how long she could continue this half-life; her entire womanhood seemed to have been spent in this semideprived state, neither married nor free, sustained by the barest grains of memories. Sometimes in her darkest moments she contemplated sacrificing her child for the chance of marrying Shigeru; they would retreat to Maruyama and prepare for open battle. Then she would remember Mariko’s sweetness and courage, and shame and remorse would swamp her. All these emotions were compounded by her anxiety for Shirakawa Kaede, not only for the girl’s sake but also because, after Mariko, Kaede was her closest female relative—heir to Maruyama if she and her daughter were to die.
