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Book Information:

Genre: Epic Fantasy

Author: Lian Hearn

Name: Grass for His Pillow

Series: Tales of the Otori, book 2

======================

Grass For His Pillow

Tales of the Otori 2

By Lian Hearn



CHARACTERS

THE OTORI

(Middk Country; castk town: Hagi)

Otori Shigeru: rightful heir to the clan (I)

Otori Takeshi: his younger brother, murdered by the Tohan clan
(d.)

Otori Takeo: (bornTomasu) his adopted son (I)

Otori Shigemori: Shigeru’s father, killed at the battle of

Yaegahara (d.) Otori Ichiro: a distant relative, Shigeru andTakeo’s
teacher (I)

Chiyo (I)

Haruka: maids in the household (I)

Shiro: a carpenter (I)

Otori Shoichi: Shigeru’s uncle, now lord of the clan (I)

Otori Masahiro: Shoichi’s younger brother (I) Otori Yoshitomi:
Masahiro’s son (I)

Miyoshi Kahei: brothers, friends of Takeo (I) Miyoshi Gemba (I)

Miyoshi Satoru: their father, captain of the guard in Hagi castle (3)
Endo Chikara: a senior retainer (3)

Terada Fumifusa: a pirate (3)

Terada Fumio: his son, friend of Takeo (I)

Ryoma: a fisherman, Masahiro’s illegitimate son (3)

THE TOHAN (The East; castle town: Inuyama) Iida Sadamu: lord
of the clan (I) Iida Nariaki: Sadamu’s cousin (3)

Ando, Abe: Iida’s retainers (I)

Lord Noguchi: an ally (I)

Lady Noguchi: his wife (I)

Junko: a servant in Noguchi castle (I)

THE SEISHUU

(An alliance of several ancient families in the West; main castle
towns:

Kumamoto and Maruyama) Arai Daüchi: a warlord (I)

Niwa Satoru: a retainer (2)

Akita Tsutomu: a retainer (2)

Sonoda Mitsuru: Akita‘s nephew (2)

Maruyama Naomi: head of the Maruyama domain, Shigerus lover
(I)

Mariko: her daughter (I) Sachie: her maid (I)

Sugita Haruki: a retainer (I) Sugita Hiroshi: his nephew (3) Sakai
Masaki: Hiroshi’s cousin (3)

Lord Shirakawa (I)

Kaede: Shirakawas eldest daughter, Lady Maruyamas cousin (I) Ai,
Hana: Shirakawas daughters (2)

Ayame (2)

Manami (2)

Akane: maids in the household (3)

Amano Tenzo: a Shirakawa retainer (I)

Shoji Kiyoshi: senior retainer to Lord Shirakawa (I)

The Tribe

THE MUTO FAMILY Muto Kenji: Takeo’s teacher, the Master (I)
Muto Shizuka: Kenji’s niece, Arai’s mistress, and Kaede’s
companion (I) Zenko, Taku: her sons (3)

Muto Seiko: Kenji’s wife (2) Muto Yuki: their daughter (I) Muto
Yuzuru: a cousin (2)

Kana(3) Miyabi: maids (3)

THE KIKUTA FAMILY Kikuta Isamu: Takeo’s real father (d.) Kikuta
Kotaro: his cousin, the Master (I) Kikuta Gosaburo: Kotaro’s
younger brother (2) Kikuta Akio: their nephew (I) Kikuta Hajime: a
wrestler (2) Sadako: a maid (2)

THE KURODA FAMILY Kuroda Shintaro: a famous assassin (I)
Kondo Küchi (2) Imai Kazuo (2) Kudo Keiko (2)

Lord Fujiware: a nobleman, exiled from the capital (2) Mamoru: his
protege and companion (2) Ono Rieko: his cousin (3) Murita: a
retainer (3)

Matsuda Shingen: the abbot at Terayama (2) Kubo Makoto: a
monk, Takeo’s closest friend (I)

Jin-emon: a bandit (3) Jiro: a farmer’s son (3) Jo-An: an outcast (I)

orses

Raku: gray with black mane and tail, Takeo’s first horse, given by
him to Kaede

Kyu: black, Shigeru’s horse, disappeared in Inuyama Aoi: black,
half brother to Kyu Ki: Amano’s chestnut Shun: Takeo’s bay, a very
clever horse

bold = main characters

(I, 2, 3) = character’s first appearance in Book I, 2, or

(d.) = character died before the start of Book I

On nights when, wind mixing in, the rain jails, On nights -when, rain
mixing in, the snow jails

YAMANOUE NO OKURAt a dialogue on poverty.

from the country of the eight islands trans: hiroaki sato

Kaede lay deeply asleep in the state close to unconsciousness
that the Kikuta can deliver with their gaze. The night passed, the
stars paled as dawn came, the sounds of the temple rose and fell
around her, but she did not stir. She did not hear her companion,
Shizuka, call anxiously to her from time to time, trying to wake her.
She did not feel Shizuka’s hand on her forehead. She did not hear
Lord Arai Daüchi’s men as they came with increasing impatience to
the veranda, telling Shizuka that the warlord was waiting to speak to
Lady Shirakawa. Her breathing was peaceful and calm, her
features as still as a mask’s.

Toward evening the quality of her sleep seemed to change. Her
eyelids flickered and her lips appeared to smile. Her fingers, which
had been curled gently against her palms, spread. Be patient. He
will come for you. Kaede was dreaming that she had been turned
to ice. The words echoed lucidly in her head. There was no fear in
 the dream, just the feeling of being held by something cool and 
white in a world that was silent, frozen, and enchanted.

Her eyes opened.

It was still light. The shadows told her it was evening. A wind bell
rang softly, once, and then the air was still. The day she had no
recollection of must have been a warm one. Her skin was damp
beneath her hair. Birds were chattering from the eaves, and she
could hear the clip of the swallows’ beaks as they caught the last
insects of the day. Soon they would fly south. It was already
autumn.

The sound of the birds reminded her of the painting Takeo had
given her, many weeks before, at this same place, a sketch of a
wild forest bird that had made her think of freedom; it had been lost
along with everything else she possessed, her wedding robes, all
her other clothes, when the castle at Inuyama burned. She
possessed nothing. Shizuka had found some old robes for her at
the house they had stayed in, and had borrowed combs and other
things. She had never been in such a place before, a merchant’s
house, smelling of fermenting soy, full of people, whom she tried
to keep away from, though every now and then the maids came to
peep at her through the screens. She was afraid everyone would
see what had happened to her on the night the castle fell. She had
killed a man, she had lain with another, she had fought alongside
him, wielding the dead man’s sword. She could not believe she
had done these things. Sometimes she thought she was
bewitched, as people said. They said of her that any man who
desired her died—and it was true. Men had died. But not Takeo.

Ever since she had been assaulted by the guard when she was a
hostage in Noguchi Castle, she had been afraid of all men. Her
terror of Iida had driven her to defend herself against him, but she
had no fear of Takeo. She had only wanted to hold him closer.
Since their first meeting in Tsuwano, her body had longed for his.
She had wanted him to touch her, she had wanted the feel of his
skin against hers. Now, as she remembered that night, she
understood with renewed clarity that she could marry no one but
him, she would love no one but him. I will be patient, she promised.
But where had those words come from?

She turned her head slightly and saw Shizuka’s outline on the edge
of the veranda. Beyond the woman rose the ancient trees of the
shrine. The air smelled of cedars and dust. The temple bell tolled
the evening hour. Kaede did not speak. She did not want to talk to
anyone, or hear any voice. She wanted to go back to that place of
ice where she had been sleeping.

Then, beyond the specks of dust that floated in the last rays of the
sun, she saw something: a spirit, she thought, yet not only a spirit,
for it had substance; it was there, undeniable and real, gleaming
like fresh snow. She stared, half rose, but in the moment that she
recognized her, the White Goddess, the all-compassionate, the all-
merciful, was gone.

“What is it?” Shizuka heard the movement and ran to her side.
Kaede looked at Shizuka and saw the deep concern in her eyes.
She realized how precious this woman had become to her—her
closest, indeed her only friend.

“Nothing. A half-dream.”

“Are you all right? How do you feel?”

“I don’t know. I feel…” Kaede’s voice died away. She gazed at
Shizuka for several moments. “Have I been asleep all day? What
happened to me?”

“He shouldn’t have done it to you,” Shizuka said, her voice sharp
with concern and anger.

“It was Takeo?”

Shizuka nodded. “I had no idea he had that skill. It’s a trait of the
Kikuta family.”

“The last thing I remember is his eyes. We gazed at each other
and then I fell asleep.”

After a pause Kaede went on: “He’s gone, hasn’t he?”

“My uncle, Muto Kenji, and the Kikuta master Kotaro came for him
last night,” Shizuka replied.

“And I will never see him again?” Kaede remembered her
desperation the previous night, before the long, deep sleep. She
had begged Takeo not to leave her. She had been terrified of her
future without him, angry and wounded by his rejection of her. But
all that turbulence had been stilled.

“You must forget him,” Shizuka said, taking Kaedes hand in hers
and stroking it gently. “From now on, his life and yours cannot
touch.” Kaede smiled slightly. I cannot forget him, she was thinking.
Nor can he ever be taken from me. I have slept in ice. I have seen
the White Goddess.

“Are you all right?” Shizuka said again, with urgency. “Not many
people survive the Kikuta sleep. They are usually dispatched
before they wake. I don’t know what it has done to you.”

“It hasn’t harmed me. But it has altered me in some way. I feel as if
I don’t know anything—as if I have to learn everything anew.”

Shizuka knelt before her, puzzled, her eyes searching Kaede’s
face. “What will you do now? Where will you go? Will you return to
Inuyama with Arai?”

j “I think I should go home to my parents. I must see my mother.

I’m so afraid she died while we were delayed in Inuyama for all that
time. I will leave in the morning. I suppose you should inform Lord
Arai.“

“I understand your anxiety,” Shizuka replied, “but Arai may be
reluctant to let you go.”

“Then I shall have to persuade him,” Kaede said calmly. “First I
must eat something. Will you ask them to prepare some food?
And bring me some tea, please.”

“Lady.” Shizuka bowed to her and stepped off the veranda. As she
walked away Kaede heard the plaintive notes of a flute played by
some unseen person in the garden behind the temple. She thought
she knew the player, one of the young monks from the time when
they had first visited the temple to view the famous Sesshu
paintings, but she could not recall his name. The music spoke to
her of the inevitability of suffering and loss. The trees stirred as the
wind rose, and owls began to hoot from the mountain.

Shizuka came back with the tea and poured a cup for Kaede. She
drank as if she were tasting it for the first time, every drop having
its own distinct, smoky flavor against her tongue. And when the old
woman who looked after guests brought rice and vegetables
cooked with bean curd, it was as if she had never tasted food
before. She marveled silently at the new powers that had been
awakened within her.

“Lord Arai wishes to speak with you before the end of the day,”
Shizuka said. “I told him you were not well, but he insisted. If you
do not feel like facing him now, I will go and tell him again.”

“I am not sure we can treat Lord Arai in that fashion,” Kaede said.
“If he commands me, I must go to him.”

“He is very angry,” Shizuka said in a low voice. “He is offended and
outraged by Takeo’s disappearance. He sees in it the loss of two
important alliances. He will almost certainly have to fight the Otori
now, without Takeo on his side. He’d hoped for a quick marriage
between you—”

“Don’t speak of it,” Kaede interrupted. She finished the last of the
rice, placed the eating sticks down on the tray, and bowed in
thanks for the food.

Shizuka sighed. “Arai has no real understanding of the Tribe—how
they work, what demands they place on those who belong to
them.”

“Did he never know that you were from the Tribe?”

“He knew I had ways of finding things out, of passing on
messages. He was happy enough to make use of my skills in
forming the alliance with Lord Shigeru and Lady Maruyama. He had
heard of the Tribe, but like most people he thought they were little
more than a guild. That they should have been involved in Iida’s
death shocked him profoundly, even though he profited from it.”
She paused and then said quietly, “He has lost all trust in me: I
think he wonders how he slept with me so many times without
being assassinated himself. Well, we will certainly never sleep
together again. That is all over.”

“Are you afraid of him? Has he threatened you?”

“He is furious with me,” Shizuka replied. “He feels I have betrayed
him—worse: made a fool out of him. I do not think he will ever
forgive me.” A bitter note crept into her voice. “I have been his
closest confidante, his lover, his friend, since I was hardly more
than a child. I have borne him two sons. Yet, he would have me put
to death in an instant were it not for your presence.”

“I will kill any man who tries to harm you,” Kaede said. Shizuka
smiled. “How fierce you look when you say that!”

“Men die easily.” Kaede’s voice was flat. “From the prick of a
needle, the thrust of a knife. You taught me that.”

“But you are yet to use those skills, I hope,” Shizuka replied,
“though you fought well at Inuyama. Takeo owes his life to you.”

Kaede was silent for a moment. Then she said in a low voice, “I did
more than fight with the sword. You do not know all of it.”

Shizuka stared at her. “What are you telling me? That it was you
who killed Iida?” she whispered.

Kaede nodded. “Takeo took his head, but he was already dead. I
did what you told me. He was going to rape me.”

Shizuka grasped her hands. “Never let anyone know that! Not one
of these warriors, not even Arai, would let you live.”

“I feel no guilt or remorse,” Kaede said. “I never did a less
shameful deed. Not only did I protect myself but the deaths of
many were avenged: Lord Shigeru; my kinswoman, Lady
Maruyama, and her daughter; and all the other innocent people
whom Iida tortured and murdered.”

“Nevertheless, if this became generally known, you would be
punished for it. Men would think the world turned upside down if
women start taking up arms and seeking revenge.”

“My world is already turned upside down,” Kaede said. “Still, I must
go and see Lord Arai. Bring me…” She broke off and laughed. “I
was going to say, ‘bring me some clothes,’ but I have none. I have
nothing!”

“You have a horse,” Shizuka replied. “Takeo left the gray for you.”

“He left me Raku?” Kaede smiled, a true smile that illuminated her
face. She stared into the distance, her eyes dark and thoughtful.

“Lady?” Shizuka touched her on the shoulder.

“Comb out my hair and send a message to Lord Arai to say I will
visit him directly.”

IT was almost completely dark by the time they left the women’s
rooms and went toward the main guest rooms where Arai and his
men were staying. Lights gleamed from the temple, and farther up
slope, beneath the trees, men stood with flaring torches around
Lord Shigeru’s grave. Even at this hour people came to visit it,
bringing incense and offerings, placing lamps and candles on the
ground around the stone, seeking the help of the dead man who
every day became more of a god to them.

He sleeps beneath a covering of jtame, Kaede thought, herself
praying silently to Shigeru’s spirit for guidance, while she pondered
what she should say to Arai. She was the heir to both Shirakawa
and Maru-yama; she knew Arai would be seeking some strong
alliance with her, probably some marriage that would bind her into
the power he was amassing. They had spoken a few times during
her stay at Inuyama, and again on the journey, but Arai’s attention
had been taken up with securing the countryside and his strategies
for the future. He had not shared these with her, beyond
expressing his desire for the Otori marriage to take place.
Once—a lifetime ago, it seemed now—she had wanted to be more
than a pawn in the hands of the warriors who commanded her fate.
Now, with the newfound strength that the icy sleep had given her,
she resolved again to take control of her life. I need time, she
thought. I must do nothing rashly. I must go home before I make
any decisions.

One of Arai’s men—she remembered his name was Niwa—
greeted her at the veranda’s edge and led her to the doorway. The
shutters all stood open. Arai sat at the end of the room, three of his
men next to him. Niwa spoke her name and the warlord looked up
at her. For a moment they studied each other. She held his gaze
and felt powers strong pulse in her veins. Then she dropped to her
knees and bowed to him, resenting the gesture yet knowing she
had to appear to submit.

He returned her bow, and they both sat up at the same time.

Kaede felt his eyes on her. She raised her head and gave him the
same unflinching look. He could not meet it. Her heart was
pounding at her audacity. In the past she had both liked and trusted
the man in front of her. Now she saw changes in his face. The lines
had deepened around his mouth and eyes. He had been both
pragmatic and flexible, but now he was in the grip of his intense
desire for power.

Not far from her parents’ home, the Shirakawa flowed through vast
limestone caves where the water had formed pillars and statues.
As a child she was taken there every year to worship the goddess
who lived within one of these pillars under the mountain. The statue
had a fluid, living shape, as though the spirit that dwelt within were
trying to break out from beneath the covering of lime. She thought
of that stone covering now. Was power a limy river calcifying those
who dared to swim in it?

Arai’s physical size and strength made her quail inwardly,
reminding her of that moment of helplessness in Iida’s arms, of the
strength of men who could force women in any way they wanted.
Never let them use that strength, came the thought, and then:
Always be armed. A taste came into her mouth, as sweet as
persimmon, as strong as blood: the knowledge and taste of power.
Was this what drove men to clash endlessly with each other, to
enslave and destroy each other? Why should a woman not have
that too?

She stared at the places on Arai’s body where the needle and the
knife had pierced Iida, had opened him up to the world he’d tried to
dominate and let his life’s blood leak away. I must never forget it,
she told herself. Men also can be killed by women. I killed the most
powerful warlord in the Three Countries.

All her upbringing had taught her to defer to men, to submit to their
will and their greater intelligence. Her heart was beating so
strongly, she thought she might faint. She breathed deeply, using
the skills Shizuka had taught her, and felt the blood settle in her
veins.

“Lord Arai, tomorrow I will leave for Shirakawa. I would be very
grateful if you will provide men to escort me home.”

“I would prefer you to stay in the East,” he said, slowly. “But that is
not what I want to talk to you about first.” His eyes narrowed as he
stared at her. “Otori's disappearance: Can you shed any light on
this extraordinary occurrence? I believe I have established my right
to power. I was already in alliance with Shigeru. How can young
Otori ignore all obligations to me and to his dead father? How can
he disobey and walk away? And where has he gone? My men have
been searching the district all day, as far as Yamagata. He’s
completely vanished.”

“I do not know where he is,” she replied. “I’m told he spoke to you
last night before he left.”

“Yes,” she said simply. “He must have explained to you at least—”

“He was bound by other obligations.” Kaede felt sorrow build within
her as she spoke. “He did not intend to insult you.” Indeed, she
could not remember Takeo mentioning Arai to her, but she did not
say this.

“Obligations to the so-called Tribe?” Arai had been controlling his
anger, but now it burst fresh into his voice, into his eyes. He moved
his head slightly, and she guessed he was looking past her to
where Shizuka knelt in the shadows on the veranda. “What do you
know of them?”

“Very little,” she replied. “It was with their help that Lord Takeo
climbed into Inuyama. I suppose we are all in their debt in that
respect.”

Speaking Takeo’s name made her shiver. She recalled the feel of
his body against hers, at that moment when they both expected to
die.

Her eyes darkened, her face softened. Arai was aware of it, without
knowing the reason, and when he spoke again she heard
something else in his voice besides rage.

“Another marriage can be arranged for you. There are other young
men of the Otori, cousins to Shigeru. I will send envoys to Hagi.”

“I am in mourning for Lord Shigeru,” she replied. “I cannot
consider marriage to anyone. I will go home and recover from my
grief.” Will anyone ever want to marry me, knowing my reputation,
she wondered, and could not help following with the thought:
Takeo did not die. She had thought Arai would argue further, but
after a moment he concurred.

“Maybe it’s best that you go to your parents. I will send for you
when I return to Inuyama. We will discuss your marriage then.”

“Will you make Inuyama your capital?”

“Yes. I intend to rebuild the castle.” In the flickering light his face
was set and brooding. Kaede said nothing. He spoke again
abruptly. “But to return to the Tribe: I had not realized how strong
their influence must be. To make Takeo walk away from such a
marriage, such an inheritance, and then to conceal him
completely… to tell you the truth, I had no idea what I was dealing
with.” He glanced again toward Shizuka.

He will kill her, she thought. It’s more than just anger at Takeo’s
disobedience: His self-esteem has been deeply wounded too. He
must suspect Shizuka has been spying on him for years. She
wondered what happened to the love and desire that had existed
between them. Had it all dissolved overnight? Did the years of
service, the trust, and loyalty, all come to nothing?

“I shall make it my business to find out about them,” he went on,
almost as if he were speaking to himself. “There must be people
who know, who will talk. I cannot let such an organization exist.
They will undermine my power as the white ant chews through
wood.”

Kaede said, “I believe it was you who sent Muto Shizuka to me, to
protect me. I owe my life to that protection. And I believe I kept
faith with you in Noguchi Castle. Strong bonds exist between us
and they shall be unbroken. Whoever I marry will swear allegiance
to you. Shizuka will remain in my service and will come with me to
my parents’ home.”

He looked at her then, and again she met his gaze with ice in her
eyes. “It’s barely thirteen months since I killed a man for your
sake,” he said. “You were hardly more than a child. You have
changed…”

“I have been made to grow up,” she replied. She made an effort
not to think of her borrowed robe, her complete lack of
possessions. I am the heir to a great domain, she told herself. She
continued to hold his eyes until he reluctantly inclined his head.

“Very well. I will send men with you to Shirakawa, and you may take
the Muto woman.”

“Lord Arai.” Only then did she drop her eyes and bow.

Arai called to Niwa to make arrangements for the following day,
and Kaede bade him good night, speaking with great deference.
She felt she had come out of the encounter well; she could afford
to pretend that all power lay on his side.

She returned to the women’s rooms with Shizuka, both of them
silent. The old woman had already spread out the beds, and now
she brought sleeping garments for them before helping Shizuka
undress Kaede. Wishing them good night, she retired to the
adjoining room.

Shizuka’s face was pale and her demeanor more subdued than
Kaede had ever known it. She touched Kaede’s hand and
whispered, “Thank you,” but said nothing else. When they were
both lying beneath the cotton quilts, as mosquitoes whined around
their heads and moths fluttered against the lamps, Kaede could
feel the other woman’s body rigid next to hers, and knew Shizuka
was struggling with grief. Yet, she did not cry.

Kaede reached out and put her arms around Shizuka, holding her
closely without speaking. She shared the same deep sorrow but
no tears came to her eyes. She would allow nothing to weaken the
power that was coming to life within her.

The next morning palanquins and an escort had been prepared for
the women. They left as soon as the sun was up. Remembering
the advice of her kinswoman Lady Maruyama, Kaede stepped
delicately into the palanquin as though she were as frail and
powerless as most women, but she made sure the grooms
brought Takeo’s horse from the stable and, once they were on the
road, she opened the waxed paper curtains so she could look out.

The swaying movement was intolerable to her, and even being
able to see did not prevent sickness from coming over her. At the
first rest stop, at Yamagata, she was so dizzy she could hardly
walk. She could not bear to look at food, and when she drank a little
tea it made her vomit immediately. Her body’s weakness infuriated
her, seeming to undermine her newly discovered feeling of power.
Shizuka led her to a small room in the rest house, bathed her face
with cold water, and made her lie down for a while. The sickness
passed as quickly as it had come, and she was able to drink some
red-bean soup and a bowl of tea.

The sight of the black palanquin, however, made her feel queasy
again. “Bring me the horse,” she said. “I will ride.”

The groom lifted her onto Raku’s back, and Shizuka mounted
nimbly behind her, and so they rode for the rest of the morning,
saying little, each wrapped in her own thoughts but taking comfort
from the others closeness.

After they left Yamagata the road began to climb steeply. In places
it was stepped with huge, flat stones. There were already signs of
autumn, though the sky was clear blue and the air warm. Beech,
sumac, and maple were beginning to turn gold and vermilion.
Strings of wild geese flew high above them. The forest deepened,
still and airless. The horse walked delicately, its head low as it
picked its way up the steps. The men were alert and uneasy. Since
the overthrow of Iida and the Tohan, the countryside was filled with
masterless men of all ranks who resorted to banditry rather than
swear new allegiances.

The horse was strong and fit. Despite the heat and the climb, its
coat was hardly darkened with sweat when they stopped again at a
small rest house at the top of the pass. It was a little past midday.
The horses were led away to be fed and watered, the men retired
to the shade trees around the well, and an old woman spread
mattresses on the floor of a matted room so Kaede might rest for
an hour or two.

Kaede lay down, thankful to be able to stretch out. The light in the
room was dim and green. Huge cedars shut out most of the glare.
In the distance she could hear the cool trickle of the spring, and
voices; the men talking quietly, occasionally a ripple of laughter,
Shizuka chatting to someone in the kitchen. At first Shizuka’s voice
was bright and gossipy, and Kaede was glad that she seemed to
be recovering her spirits, but then it went low, and the person to
whom she was speaking responded in the same vein. Kaede could
no longer make out anything they said.

After a while the conversation ceased. Shizuka came quietly into
the room and lay down next to Kaede.

“Who were you talking to?”

Shizuka turned her head so she could speak directly into Kaede’s
ear. “A cousin of mine works here.”

“You have cousins everywhere.”

“That’s how it is with the Tribe.”

Kaede was silent for a moment. Then she said, “Don’t other
people suspect who you are and want to…”

“Want to what?”

“Well, get rid of you.”

Shizuka laughed. “No one dares. We have infinitely more ways of
getting rid of them. And no one ever knows anything about us for
sure. They have their suspicions. But you may have noticed, both
my uncle Kenji and I can appear in many different guises. The
Tribe are hard to recognize, in addition to possessing many other
arts.”

“Will you tell me more about them?” Kaede was fascinated by this
world that lay in the shadows of the world she knew.

“I can tell you a little. Not everything. Later, when we cannot be
overheard.”

From outside a crow called harshly.

Shizuka said, “I learned two things from my cousin. One is that
Takeo has not left Yamagata. Arai has search parties out and
guards on the highway. They will be concealing him within the
town.”

The crow cried again. Aah! Aah!

I might have passed his hiding place today, Kaede thought. After a
long moment she said, “What was the second thing?”

“An accident may occur on the road.”

“What sort of accident?”

“To me. It seems Arai does want to get rid of me, as you put it.

But it is planned to look like an accident, a brigand attack,
something like that. He cannot bear that I should live, but he does
not wish to offend you outright.“

“You must leave.” Kaede’s voice rose with urgency. “As long as
you are with me, he knows where to find you.”

“Shush,” Shizuka warned. “I’m only telling you so you won’t do
anything foolish.”

“What would be foolish?”

“To use your knife, to try to defend me.”

“I would do that,” Kaede said.

“I know. But you must keep your boldness and those skills hidden.
Someone is traveling with us who will protect me. More than one
probably. Leave the fighting to them.”

“Who is it?”

“If my lady can guess, I’ll give her a present!” Shizuka said lightly.

“What happened to your broken heart?” Kaede asked, curious.

“I mended it with rage,” Shizuka replied. Then she spoke more
seriously. “I may never love a man as much again. But I have done
nothing shameful. I am not the one who has acted with dishonor.
Before, I was bound to him, a hostage to him. In cutting me off
from him, he has set me free.”

“You should leave me,” Kaede said again.

“How can I leave you now? You need me more than ever.”

Kaede lay still. “Why more than ever now?”

“Lady, you must know. Your bleeding is late, your face is softer,
your hair thicker. The sickness, followed by hunger…” Shizuka’s
voice was soft, filled with pity.

Kaede’s heart began to race. The knowledge lay beneath her skin,
but she could not bring herself to face it.

“What will I do?”

“Whose child is it? Not Iida’s?”

“I killed Iida before he could rape me. If it’s true there is a child, it
can only be Takeo’s.”

“When?” Shizuka whispered.

“The night Iida died. Takeo came to my room. We both expected
to die.”

Shizuka breathed out. “I sometimes think he is touched by
madness.”

“Not madness. Bewitchment, maybe,” Kaede said. “It’s as if we
were both under a spell ever since we met in Tsuwano.”

“Well, my uncle and I are partly to blame for that. We should never
have brought you together.”

“There was nothing you or anyone could have done to prevent it,”
Kaede said. Despite herself, a quiet intimation of joy stirred within
her.

“If it were Iida’s child, I would know what to do,” Shizuka said. “I
would not hesitate. There are things I can give you that will get rid
of it. But Takeo’s child is my own kin, my own blood.”

Kaede said nothing. The child may inherit Takeo’s gifts, she was
thinking, those gifts that make him valuahle. Everyone wanted to
use him for some purpose of their own. But I love him for himself
alone. I will never get rid of his child. And I will never let the Tribe
take it from me. But would Shizuka try? Would she so betray me?

She was silent for so long, Shizuka sat up to see if she had fallen
asleep. But Kaede’s eyes were open, staring at the green light
beyond the doorway.

“How long will the sickness last?” Kaede said.

“Not long. And you will not show for three or four months.”

“You know about these things. You said you have two sons?”

“Yes. Arai’s children.”

“Where are they?”

“With my grandparents. He does not know where they are.”

“Hasn’t he acknowledged them?”

“He was interested enough in them until he married and had a son
by his legal wife,” Shizuka said. “Then, since my sons are older, he
began to see them as a threat to his heir. I realized what he was
thinking and took them away to a hidden village the Muto family
have. He must never know where they are.”

Kaede shivered despite the heat. “You think he would harm them?”

“It would not be the first time a lord, a warrior, had done so,”
Shizuka replied bitterly.

“I am afraid of my father,” Kaede said. “What will he do to me?”
Shizuka whispered, “Suppose Lord Shigeru, fearing Iida’s
treachery, insisted on a secret marriage at Terayama, the day we
visited the temple. Your kinswoman, Lady Maruyama, and her
companion, Sachie, were the witnesses, but they did not live.”

“I cannot lie to the world in that way,” Kaede began. Shizuka
hushed her. “You do not need to say anything. It has all been
hidden. You are following your late husband’s wishes. I will let it be
known, as if inadvertently. You’ll see how these men can’t keep a
secret among themselves.”

“What about documents, proof?”

“They were lost when Inuyama fell, along with everything else. The
child will be Shigeru’s. If it is a boy, it will be the heir to the Otori.”

“That is too far in the future to think about,” Kaede said quickly.
“Don’t tempt fate.” For Shigeru’s real unborn child came into her
mind, the one that had perished silently within its mothers body in
the waters of the river at Inuyama. She prayed that its ghost would
not be jealous, she prayed her own child would live.

Before the end of the week the sickness had eased a little.
Kaede’s
breasts swelled, her nipples ached, and she became suddenly,
urgently hungry at unexpected times, but otherwise she began to
feel well, better than she had ever felt in her life. Her senses were
heightened almost as if the child shared its gifts with her. She
noted with amazement how Shizuka’s secret information spread
through the men as, one by one, they began to address her as
Lady Otori, in lowered voices and with averted eyes. The pretense
made her uneasy, but she went along with it, not knowing what else
to do.

She studied the men carefully, trying to discern which was the
member of the Tribe who would protect Shizuka when the moment
came. Shizuka had regained her cheerfulness and laughed and
joked with them all equally, and they all responded, with different
emotions ranging from appreciation to desire, but not one of them
seemed to be particularly vigilant.

Because they rarely looked at Kaede directly, they would have
been surprised at how well she came to know them. She could
distinguish each of them in the dark by his tread or his voice,
sometimes even by his smell. She gave them names: Scar, Squint,
Silent, Long Arm.

Long Arm’s smell was of the hot spiced oil that the men used to
flavor their rice. His voice was low, roughly accented. He had a look
about him that suggested insolence to her, a sort of irony that
annoyed her. He was of medium build, with a high forehead and
eyes that bulged a little and were so black he seemed to have no
pupils. He had a habit of screwing them up and then sniffing with a
flick of his head. His arms were abnormally long and his hands big.
If anyone were going to murder a woman, Kaede thought, it would
be him.

In the second week a sudden storm delayed them in a small
village. Confined by the rain to the narrow, uncomfortable room,
Kaede was restless. She was tormented by thoughts of her
mother. When she sought her in her mind she met nothing but
darkness. She tried to re-call her face but could not. Nor could she
summon up her sisters’ appearance. The youngest would be
almost nine. If her mother, as she feared, was dead, she would
have to take her place, be a mother to her sisters, run the
household, overseeing the cooking, cleaning, weaving, and sewing
that were the year-round chores of women, taught to girls by their
mothers and aunts and grandmothers. She knew nothing of such
things. When she had been a hostage she had been neglected by
the Noguchi family. They had taught her so little; all she had
learned was how to survive on her own in the castle while she ran
around like a maid, waiting on the armed men. Well, she would
have to learn these practical skills. The child gave her feelings and
instincts she had not known before: the instinct to take care of her
people. She thought of the Shirakawa retainers, men like Shoji
Kiyoshi and Amano Tenzo, who had come with her father when he
had visited her at Noguchi Castle, and the servants of the house,
like Ayame, whom she had missed almost as much as her mother
when she had been taken away at seven years old. Was Ayame
still alive? Would she still remember the girl she had looked after?
Kaede was returning, ostensibly married and widowed, another
man dead on her account, and she was pregnant. What would her
welcome be at her parents’ home?

The delay irritated the men too. She knew they were anxious to be
done with this tiresome duty, impatient to return to the battles that
were their real work, their life. They wanted to be part of Arai’s
victories over theTohan in the East, not far away from the action in
the West, looking after women.

Arai was only one of them, she thought wonderingly. How had he
suddenly become so powerful? What did he have that made these
men, each of them adult, physically strong, want to follow and obey
him? She remembered again his swift ruthlessness when he had
cut the throat of the guard who had attacked her in Noguchi Castle.
He would not hesitate to kill any one of these men in the same way.
Yet, it was not fear that made them obey him. Was it a sort of trust
in that ruthlessness, in that willingness to act immediately, whether
the act was right or wrong? Would they ever trust a woman in that
way? Could she command men as he did? Would warriors like
Shoji and Amano obey her?

The rain stopped and they moved on. The storm had cleared the
last of the humidity and the days that followed were brilliant, the sky
huge and blue above the mountain peaks where every day the
maples showed more red. The nights grew cooler, already with a
hint of the frost to come.

The journey wound on and the days became long and tiring. Finally
one morning Shizuka said, “This is the last pass. Tomorrow we will
be at Shirakawa.”

They were descending a steep path, so densely carpeted with
pine needles the horses’ feet made no noise. Shizuka was walking
alongside Raku while Kaede rode. Beneath the pines and cedars it
was dark, but a little ahead of them the sun slanted through a
bamboo grove, casting a dappled, greenish light.

“Have you been on this road before?” Kaede asked. “Many times.
The first time was years ago. I was sent to Ku-mamoto to work for
the Arai family when I was younger than you are now. The old lord
was still alive then. He kept his sons under an iron rule, but the
oldest—Daüchi is his given name—still found ways to take the
maids to bed. I resisted him for a long time; it’s not easy, as you
know, for girls living in castles. I was determined he would not
forget me as quickly as he forgot most of them. And naturally I was
also under instructions from my family, the Muto.”

“So you were spying on him all that time,” Kaede murmured.
“Certain people were interested in the Arai allegiances, particularly
in Daüchi, before he went to the Noguchi.” “Certain people
meaning Iida?”

“Of course. It was part of the settlement with the Seishuu clan after
Yaegahara. Arai was reluctant to serve Noguchi. He disliked Iida
and thought Noguchi a traitor, but he was compelled to obey.”

“You worked for Iida?”

“You know who I work for,” Shizuka said quietly. “Always in the first
instance for the Muto family, for the Tribe. Iida employed many of
the Muto at that time.”

“I’ll never understand it,” Kaede said. The alliances of her class
were complex enough, with new ones being formed through
marriage, old ones maintained by hostages, allegiances being
broken by sudden insults or feuds or sheer opportunism. Yet,
these seemed straightforward compared to the intrigues of the
Tribe. The unpleasant thought that Shizuka only stayed with her on
orders from the Muto family came to her again.

“Are you spying on me?”

Shizuka made a sign with her hand to silence her. The men rode
ahead and behind, out of earshot, Kaede thought. “Are you?”

Shizuka put her hand on the horse’s shoulder. Kaede looked down
on the back of her head, the white nape of her neck beneath the
dark hair. Her head was turned away so Kaede could not see her
face. Shizuka kept pace with the horse as it stepped down the
slope, swinging its haunches to keep its balance. Kaede leaned
forward and tried to speak quietly. “Tell me.”

Then the horse startled and plunged suddenly. Kaede’s forward
movement turned into a sudden downward dive.

I’m going to jail, she thought in amazement, and the ground rushed
up toward her as she and Shizuka fell together.

The horse was jumping sideways as it tried not to step on them.
Kaede was aware of more confusion, a greater danger.

“Shizuka!” she cried.

“Keep down,” the girl replied, and pushed her to the ground, but
Kaede struggled to look.

There were men on the path ahead, two of them; wild bandits by
the look of them, with drawn swords. She felt for her knife, longed
for a sword or a pole at least, remembered her promise, all in a
split second before she heard the thrum of a bowstring. An arrow
flew past the horse’s ears, making it jump and buck again.

There was a brief cry and one man fell at her feet, blood streaming
from where the arrow had pierced his neck.

The second man faltered for a moment. The horse plunged
sideways, knocking him off balance. He swung his sword in a
desperate sideways slice at Shizuka, then Long Arm was on him,
coming up under the blow with almost supernatural speed, his
sword’s tip seeming to find its own way into the man’s throat.

The men in front turned and ran back, those behind came milling
forward. Shizuka had caught the horse by the bridle and was
calming it.

Long Arm helped Kaede to her feet. “Don’t be alarmed, Lady
Otori,” he said in his rough accent, the smell of pepper oil strong
on his breath. “They were just brigands.”

Just brigands? Kaede thought. They had died so suddenly and
with so much blood. Brigands, maybe, but in whose pay?

The men took their weapons and drew lots for them, then threw the
bodies into the undergrowth. It was impossible to tell if any one of
them had anticipated the attack or was disappointed in its failure.

They seemed to show more deference to Long Arm, and she
realized they were impressed by the swiftness of his reaction and
his fighting skills, but otherwise they acted as if it was a normal
occurrence, one of the hazards of travel. One or two of them joked
with Shizuka that the bandits wanted her as a wife, and she
answered in the same vein, adding that the forest was full of such
desperate men, but even a bandit had more chance with her than
any of the escort.

“I would never have picked your defender,” Kaede said later. “In
fact, quite the opposite. He was the one I suspected would kill you
with those big hands of his.”

Shizuka laughed. “He’s quite a clever fellow, and a ruthless fighter.
It’s easy to misjudge or underestimate him. You were not the only
person surprised by him. Were you afraid at that moment?”

Kaede tried to remember. “No, mainly because there was no time.
I wished I had a sword.”

Shizuka said, “You have the gift of courage.”

“It’s not true. I am often afraid.”

“No one would ever guess,” Shizuka murmured. They had come to
an inn in a small town on the border of the Shirakawa domain.
Kaede had been able to bathe in the hot spring, and she was now
in her night attire, waiting for the evening meal to be brought. Her
welcome at the inn had been perfunctory, and the town itself made
her uneasy. There seemed to be little food, and the people were
sullen and dispirited.

She was bruised down one side from the fall, and she feared for
the child. She was also nervous about meeting her father. Would
he believe she had married Lord Otori? She could not imagine his
fury if he discovered the truth.

“I don’t feel very brave at the moment,” she confessed.

Shizuka said, “I’ll massage your head. You look exhausted.”

But even as she leaned back and enjoyed the feeling of the girl’s
fingers against her scalp Kaede’s misgivings increased. She
remembered what they had been talking about at the moment of
the attack.

“You will be home tomorrow,” Shizuka said, feeling her tension.
“The journey is nearly over.”

“Shizuka, answer me truthfully: What’s the real reason you stay with
me? Is it to spy on me? Who employs the Muto now?”

“No one employs us at the moment. Iida’s downfall has thrown the
whole of the Three Countries into confusion. Arai is saying he will
wipe out the Tribe. We don’t know yet if he is serious or if he will
come to his senses and work with us. In the meantime my uncle,
Kenji, who admires Lady Shirakawa greatly, wants to be kept
informed of her welfare and her intentions.”

And of my child, Kaede thought, but did not speak it. Instead she
asked, “My intentions?”

“You are heir to one of the richest and most powerful domains in
the West, Maruyama, as well as to your own estate of Shirakawa.
Whoever you marry will become a key player in the future of the
Three Countries. At the moment everyone assumes you will
maintain the alliance with Arai, strengthening his position in the
West while he settles the Otori question; your destiny is closely
linked with the Otori clan and with the Middle Country too.”

“I may marry no one,” Kaede said, half to herself. And in that case,
she was thinking, why should I not become a key player myself?

he sounds of the temple at Terayama, the midnight bell, the
chanting of the monks, faded from my hearing as I followed the
two masters, Kikuta Ko-taro and Muto Kenji, down a lonely path,
steep and overgrown, alongside the stream. We went swiftly, the
noise of the tumbling water hiding our footsteps. We said little and
we saw no one.

By the time we came to Yamagata, it was nearly dawn and the first
cocks were crowing. The streets of the town were deserted,
though the curfew was lifted and the Tohan no longer there to
patrol them. We came to a merchant’s house in the middle of the
town, not far from the inn where we had stayed during the Festival
of the Dead. I already knew the street from when I had explored
the town at night. It seemed a lifetime ago.

Kenji’s daughter, Yuki, opened the gate as though she had been
waiting for us all night, even though we came so silently that not a
dog barked. She said nothing, but I caught the intensity in the look
she gave me. Her face, her vivid eyes, her graceful, muscular
body, brought back all too clearly the terrible events at Inuyama the
night Shigeru died. I had half-expected to see her atTerayama, for
it was she who had traveled day and night to take Shigeru’s head to
the temple and break the news of his death. There were many
things I would have liked to have questioned her about: her
journey, the uprising at Yamagata, the overthrow of the Tohan. As
her father and the Kikuta master went ahead into the house, I
lingered a little so that she and I stepped up on to the veranda
together. A low light was burning by the doorway.

She said, “I did not expect to see you alive again.”

“I did not expect to live.” Remembering her skill and her ruth-
lessness, I added, “I owe you a huge debt. I can never repay you.”

She smiled. “I was repaying debts of my own. You owe me
nothing. But I hope we will be friends.”

The word did not seem strong enough to describe what we already
were. She had brought Shigeru’s sword, Jato, to me and had
helped me in his rescue and revenge: the most important and most
desperate acts of my life. I was filled with gratitude for her, mingled
with admiration.

She disappeared for a moment and came back with water. I
washed my feet, listening to the two masters talking within the
house. They planned to rest for a few hours, then I would travel on
with Ko-taro. I shook my head wearily. I was tired of listening.

“Come,” she said, and led me into the center of the house, where,
as in Inuyama, there was a concealed room as narrow as an eel’s
bed.

“Am I a prisoner again?” I said, looking around at the window-less
walls.

“No, it’s only for your own safety, to rest for a few hours. Then you
will travel on.”

Jo

“I know; I heard.”

“Of course,” she said. “I forgot: You hear everything.”

“Too much,” I said, sitting down on the mattress that was already
spread out on the floor.

“Gifts are hard. But it’s better to have them than not. I’ll get you
some food, and tea is ready.”

She came back in a few moments. I drank the tea but could not
face food. “There’s no hot water to bathe,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“I’ll live.” Twice already she had bathed me. Once here, in
Yamagata, when I did not know who she was and she had
scrubbed my back and massaged my temples, and then again in
Inuyama, when I could barely walk. The memory came flooding
over me. Her gaze met mine, and I knew she was thinking of the
same thing. Then she looked away and said quietly, “I’ll leave you
to sleep.”

I placed my knife close to the mattress and slid beneath the quilt
without bothering to undress. I thought of what Yuki had said about
gifts. I did not think I would ever be as happy again as I had been
in the village where I was born, Mino—but in Mino I was a child, and
now the village was destroyed, my family all dead. I knew I must
not dwell on the past. I had agreed to come to the Tribe. It was
because of my gifts that they wanted me so badly, and it was only
with the Tribe that I would learn to develop and control the skills I
had been given.

I thought of Kaede, whom I had left sleeping atTerayama.
Hopelessness came over me, followed by resignation. I would
never see her again. I would have to forget her. Slowly the town
started to wake around me. Finally, as the light brightened beyond
the doors, I slept. I woke suddenly to the sound of men and horses
in the street beyond the walls of the house. The light in the room
had changed, as though the sun had crossed above the roof, but I
had no idea how long I’d slept. A man was shouting and in reply a
woman was complaining, growing angry. I caught the gist of the
words. The men were Arai’s, going from house to house, looking
for me.

I pushed back the quilt and felt for the knife. As I picked it up the
door slid open and Kenji came silently into the room. The false wall
was locked into place behind him. He looked at me briefly, shook
his head, and sat down cross-legged on the floor in the tiny space
between the mattress and the wall.

I recognized the voices; the men had been at Terayama with Arai. I
heard Yuki calming the angry woman down, offering the men a
drink.

“We’re all on the same side now,” she said, and laughed. “Do you
think if Otori Takeo were here we’d be able to hide him?”

The men drank quickly and left. As their footsteps died away Kenji
snorted through his nose and gave me one of his disparaging
looks. “No one can pretend not to have heard of you in Yamagata,”
he said. “Shigeru’s death made him a god; Iida’s has turned you
into a hero. It’s a story the people are wild about.” He sniffed and
added, “Don’t let it go to your head. It’s extremely annoying. Now
Arai’s mounted a full-scale search for you. He’s taking your
disappearance as a personal insult. Luckily your face is not too well
known here, but we’ll have to disguise you.” He studied my
features, frowning. “That Otori look… you’ll have to conceal it.”

He was interrupted by a sound outside as the wall was lifted away.
Kikuta Kotaro came in, followed by Akio, the young man who had
been one of my captors in Inuyama. Yuki stepped after them,
bringing tea.

The Kikuta master gave me a nod as I bowed to him. “Akio has
been out in the town, listening to the news.”

Akio dropped to his knees before Kenji and inclined his head
slightly to me. I responded in the same way. When he and the
other Tribe members had kidnapped me in Inuyama, they had
been doing their best to restrain me without hurting me. I had been
fighting in earnest. I had wanted to kill him. I had cut him. I could
see now that his left hand still bore a half-healed scar, red and
inflamed. We had hardly spoken before; he had reprimanded me
for my lack of manners and had accused me of breaking every rule
of the Tribe. There had been little goodwill between us. Now when
our eyes met I felt his deep hostility.

Akio said, “It seems Lord Arai is furious that this person left without
permission and refused a marriage that the lord desired. Lord Arai
has issued orders for this person’s arrest, and he intends to
investigate the organization known as the Tribe, which he
considers illegal and undesirable.” He bowed again to Kotaro and
said stiffly, “I’m sorry, but I do not know what this persons name is
to be.”

The master nodded and stroked his chin, saying nothing. We had
talked about names before and he had told me to continue using
Takeo—though, as he said, it had never been a Tribe name. Was I
to take the family name of Kikuta now? And what would my given
name be? I did not want to give up Takeo, the name Shigeru had
given me, but if I was no longer to be one of the Otori, what right
did I have to it?

“Arai is offering rewards for information,” Yuki said, placing a bowl
of tea on the matting in front of each of us.

“No one in Yamagata will dare to volunteer information,” Akio said.
“They’ll be dealt with if they do!”

“It’s what I was afraid of,” Kotaro said to Kenji. “Arai has had no
real dealings with us, and now he fears our power.”

“Should we eliminate him?” Akio said eagerly. “We—”

Kotaro made a movement with his hand, and the young man
bowed again and fell silent.

“With Iida gone, there is already a lack of stability. If Arai should
perish, too, who knows what anarchy would break out?”

Kenji said, “I don’t see Arai as any great danger. Threats and
bluster, perhaps, but no more than that in the long run. As things
have turned out now, he is our best hope for peace.” He glanced at
me. “That’s what we desire above all. We need some degree of
order for our work to flourish.“

“Arai will return to Inuyama and make that his capital,” Yuki said. “It
is easier to defend and more central than Kumamoto, and he has
claimed all Iida’s lands by right of conquest.”

“Unh,” Kotaro grunted. He turned to me. “I had planned for you to
return to Inuyama with me. I have matters to attend to there for the
next few weeks, and you would have begun your training there.
However, it may be better if you remain here for a few days. We
will then take you north beyond the Middle Country, to another of
the Kikuta houses, where no one has heard of Otori Takeo—where
you will start a new life. Do you know how to juggle?”

I shook my head.

“You have a week to learn. Akio will teach you. Yuki and some of
the other actors will accompany you. I will meet you in Matsue.”

I bowed, saying nothing. I looked from under my lowered eyelids at
Akio. He was staring downward, frowning, the line deep between
his eyes. He was only three or four years older than I was, but at
that moment it was possible to see what he would be like as an old
man. So he was a juggler. I was sorry I had cut his clever juggler’s
hand, but I thought my actions perfectly justified. Still, the fight lay
between us, along with other feelings, unresolved, festering.

Kotaro said, “Kenji, your association with Lord Shigeru has singled
you out in this affair. Too many people know that this is your main
place of residence. Arai will certainly have you arrested if you stay
here.”

“I’ll go to the mountains for a while,” Kenji replied. “Visit the old
people, spend some time with the children.“ He smiled, looking like
my harmless old teacher again.

“Excuse me, but what is this person to be called?” Akio said.

“He can take a name as an actor for the time being,” Kotaro said.
“What his Tribe name is depends—”

There was some meaning behind his words that I did not
understand, but Akio all too clearly did. “His father renounced the
Tribe!” he burst out. “He turned his back on us!”

“But his son has returned, with all the gifts of the Kikuta,” the
master replied. “However, for now, in everything you are his senior.
Takeo, you will submit to Akio and learn from him.”

A smile played on his lips. I think he knew how hard that would be
for me. Kenji’s face was rueful, as if he also could foresee trouble.

“Akio has many skills,” Kotaro went on. “You are to master them.”
He waited for my acceptance, then told Akio and Yuki to leave. Yuki
refilled the tea bowls before she left, and the two older men drank
noisily. I could smell food cooking. It seemed like days since I’d
last eaten. I was sorry I had not accepted Yuki’s offer of food the
previous night; I was faint with hunger.

Kotaro said, “I told you I was first cousin to your father. I did not tell
you that he was older than me and would have become master at
our grandfather’s death. Akio is my nephew and my heir. Your
return raises questions of inheritance and seniority. How we deal
with them depends on your conduct in the next few months.”

It took me a couple of moments to grasp his meaning. “Akio was
brought up in the Tribe,” I said slowly. “He knows everything I don’t
know. There must be many others like that. I’ve no wish to take his
or anyone else’s place.”

“There are many,” Kotaro replied, “and all of them more obedient,
better trained, and more deserving than you. But none has the
Kikuta gift of hearing to the extent that you have it, and no one else
could have gone alone into Yamagata Castle as you did.“

That episode seemed like something from a past life. I could
hardly remember the impulse that had driven me to climb into the
castle and release into death the Hidden who were encaged in
baskets and hung from the castle walls, the first time I had killed. I
wished I had never done it: If I had not drawn the Tribe’s attention
to myself so dramatically, maybe they would not have taken me
before… before… I shook myself. There was no point in endlessly
trying to unravel the threads that had woven Shigeru’s death.

“However, now that I’ve said that,” Kotaro continued, “you must
know that I cannot treat you in any way differently from the others of
your generation. I cannot have favorites. Whatever your skills, they
are useless to us unless we also have your obedience. I don’t
have to remind you that you have already pledged this to me. You
will stay here for a week. You must not go outside or let anyone
know you are here. In that week you must learn enough to pass as
a juggler. I will meet you at Matsue before winter. It’s up to you to
go through the training with complete obedience.”

“Who knows when I will meet you again?” Kenji said, regarding me
with his usual mixture of affection and exasperation. “My work with
you is done,” he went on. “I found you, taught you, kept you alive
somehow, and brought you back to the Tribe. You’ll find Akio
tougher than I was.” He grinned, showing the gaps between his
teeth. “But Yuki will look after you.”

There was something in the way he said it that made the color rise
in my face. We had done nothing, had not even touched each
other, but something existed between us, and Kenji was aware of
it.

Both masters were grinning as they stood up and embraced me.

Kenji gave me a cuff round the head. “Do as you’re told,” he said.
“And learn to juggle.”

I wished Kenji and I could have spoken alone. There was so much
still unresolved between us. Yet, maybe it was better that he should
bid me farewell as though he truly were an affectionate teacher
whom I had outgrown. Besides, as I was to learn, the Tribe do not
waste time on the past and do not like to be confronted with it.

After they’d left, the room seemed gloomier than ever, airless and
stuffy. I could hear through the house the sounds of their
departure. The elaborate preparations, the long good-byes of most
travelers, were not for them. Kenji and Kotaro just walked out the
door, carrying everything they needed for the road in their hands:
light bundles in wrapping cloths, a spare pair of sandals, some rice
cakes flavored with salted plums. I thought about them and the
roads they must have walked, tracing and retracing their way
across the Three Countries and beyond, for all I knew, following
the vast web the Tribe spun from village to village, town to town.
Wherever they went they would find relatives; they would never be
without shelter or protection.

I heard Yuki say she would walk with them to the bridge, and heard
the woman who’d been angry with the soldiers reply.

“Take care of yourselves,” the woman called after them. The
footsteps faded down the street.

The room seemed even more depressing and lonely. I couldn’t
imagine bemg confined in it for a week. Almost without realizing
what I was doing, I was already planning to get out. Not to escape:
I was quite resigned to staying with the Tribe. Just to get out. Partly
to look at Yamagata again by night, partly to see if I could.

Not long after, I heard someone approaching. The door slid back
and a woman stepped in. She was carrying a tray of food: rice,
pickles, a small piece of dried fish, a bowl of soup. She knelt,
placing the tray on the floor.

“Here, eat, you must be hungry.”

I was famished. The smell of the food made me dizzy. I fell on it
like a wolf. She sat and watched me while I ate.

“So you’re the one who’s been causing my poor old husband so
much trouble,” she remarked as I was polishing the bowl for the
last grains of rice.

Kenji’s wife. I shot a look at her and met her gaze. Her face was
smooth, as pale as his, with the similarity that many long-married
couples attain. Her hair was still thick and black, with just a few
white hairs appearing at the center of her scalp. She was thickset
and solid, a true townswoman with square, short-fingered, capable
hands. The only thing I could remember Kenji saying about her
was that she was a good cook, and indeed the food was delicious.

I told her so, and as the smile moved from her lips to her eyes I
saw in an instant that she was Yuki’s mother. Their eyes were the
same shape, and when she smiled, the expression was the same.

“Who’d have thought that you’d have turned up after all these
years,” she went on, sounding garrulous and motherly. “I knew
Isamu, your father, well. And no one knew anything about you until
that incident with Shintaro. Imagine you hearing and outwitting the
most dangerous assassin in the Three Countries! The Kikuta
family were delighted to discover Isamu had left a son. We all
were. And one with such talents too!”

I didn’t reply. She seemed a harmless old woman—but then, Kenji
had appeared a harmless old man. I felt in myself a faint echo of
the mistrust I’d had when I first saw Kenji in the street in Hagi. I
tried to study her without appearing to, and she stared openly at
me. I felt she was challenging me in some way, but I had no
intention of responding until I’d found out more about her and her
skills.

“Who killed my father?” I said instead.

“No one’s ever found out. It was years before we even knew for
certain that he was dead. He’d found an isolated place to hide
himself in.”

“Was it someone from the Tribe?”

That made her laugh, which angered me. “Kenji said you trusted no
one. It’s good, but you can trust me.”

“Like I could trust him,” I muttered.

“Shigeru’s scheme would have killed you,” she said mildly. “It’s
important for the Kikuta, for the whole Tribe, to keep you alive. It’s
so rare these days to find such a wealth of talent.”

I grunted at that, trying to discern some hidden meaning beneath
her flattery. She poured tea, and I drank it at a gulp. My head ached
from the stuffy room.

“You’re tense,” she said, taking the bowl from my hands, and
placing it on the tray. She moved the tray to one side and came
closer to me. Kneeling behind me, she began to massage my
neck and shoulders. Her fingers were strong, pliant, and sensitive,
all at the same time. She worked over my back and then, saying,
“Close your eyes,” began on my head. The sensation was
exquisite. I almost groaned aloud. Her hands seemed to have a life
of their own. I gave my head to them, feeling as though it were
floating off my neck.

Then I heard the door slide. My eyes snapped open. I could still
feel her fingers in my scalp, but I was alone in the room. A shiver
ran down my spine. Kenji’s wife might look harmless but her
powers were probably as great as her husband’s or her daughter’s.

She’d also taken away my knife.

I was given the name of Minoru, but hardly anyone called me by it.
When we were alone Yuki occasionally called me Takeo, letting the
word form in her mouth as if she were granting herself a gift. Akio
only said “you” and always in the form used when addressing
inferiors. He was entitled to. He was my senior in years, training,
and knowledge, and I’d been ordered to submit to him. It rankled,
though: I hadn’t realized how much I had become accustomed to
being treated with respect as an Otori warrior and Shigeru’s heir.

My training began that afternoon. I had not known that the muscles
in my hands could ache so much. My right wrist was still weak from
my first fight with Akio. By the end of the day it was throbbing again.
We started with exercises to make the fingers deft and supple.
Even with his damaged hand Akio was far faster and far more
dexterous than me. We sat opposite each other and time and
again he rapped my hands before I could move them.

He was so quick, I could not believe that I could not even see the
movement. At first the rap was no more than a light tap, but as the
afternoon turned to evening and we both grew tired and frustrated
by my clumsiness, he began to hit me in earnest.

Yuki, who had come into the room to join us, said quietly, “If you
bruise his hands, it will take longer.”

“Maybe I should bruise his head,” Akio muttered, and the next time,
before I could move my hands away, he seized both in his right
hand and, with the left, hit me on the cheek. It was a real blow,
strong enough to make my eyes water.

“Not so bold without a knife,” he said, releasing my hands and
holding his own ready again.

Yuki said nothing. I could feel anger simmering inside me. It was
outrageous to me that he should hit an Otori lord. The confined
room, the deliberate teasing, Yuki’s indifference—all combined to
drive me toward loss of control. The next time Akio made the same
move with opposite hands. The blow was even harder, making my
neck snap back. My sight went black, then red. I felt the rage erupt
just as it had with Kenji. I hurled myself at him.

It’s been many years since I was seventeen, since the fury seized
me and threw me beyond self-control. But I still recall the way the
release felt, as though my animal self had been unleashed, and
then I’d have no memory of what happened after that, just the blind
feeling of not caring if I lived or died, of refusing to be forced or
bullied any longer.

After the first moment of surprise, when I had my hands round
Akio’s throat, the two of them restrained me easily. Yuki did her
trick of pressing into my neck, and as I began to black out, she hit
me harder than I would have thought possible in the stomach. I
doubled over, retching. Akio slid out from beneath me and
pinioned my arms behind my back.

We sat on the matting, as close as lovers, breathing heavily. The
whole episode had lasted no more than a minute. I couldn’t believe
Yuki had hit me so hard. I’d thought she would have been on my
side. I stared at her with rancor in my heart.

“That’s what you have to learn to control,” she said calmly.

Akio released my arms and knelt in readiness. “Let’s start again.”

“Don’t hit me in the face,” I said.

“Yuki’s right, it’s best not to bruise your hands,” he replied. “So be
quicker.”

I vowed inwardly I would not let him hit me again. The next time,
though, I did not get close to rapping him; I moved head and hands
away before he could touch me. Watching him, I began to sense
the slightest intimation of movement. I finally managed to graze the
surface of his knuckles. He said nothing, nodded as if satisfied, but
barely, and we moved on to working with juggling balls.

So the hours went: passing the ball from one palm to the other,
from palm to mat to palm. By the end of the second day I could
juggle three balls in the ancient style; by the end of the third day,
four. Akio still sometimes managed to catch me off guard and slap
me, but mostly I learned to avoid it, in an elaborate dance of balls
and hands. By the end of the fourth day I was seeing balls behind
my eyelids, and I was bored and restless beyond words. Some
people, and I guessed Akio was one, work persistently at these
skills because they are obsessed by them and by their desire to
master them. I quickly realized I was not among them. I couldn’t
see the point to juggling. It didn’t interest me. I was learning in the
hardest of ways and for the worst of reasons: because I would be
beaten if I did not. I submitted to Akio’s harsh teaching because I
had to, but I hated it, and I hated him. Twice more his goading led
to the same outburst of fury but just as I was learning to anticipate
him, so he andYuki came to know the signs, and were ready to
restrain me before anyone got hurt.

That fourth night, once the house was silent and everyone slept, I
decided to go exploring. I was bored, I could not sleep, I was
longing to breathe some fresh air, but above all I wanted to see if I
could. For obedience to the Tribe to make sense, I had to find out
if I could be disobedient. Forced obedience seemed to have as
little point as juggling. They might as well tie me up day and night
like a dog, and I would growl and bite on command.

I knew the layout of the house. I had mapped it when I had nothing
else to do but listen. I knew where everyone slept at night. Yuki and
her mother were in a room at the back of the building, with two
other women whom I had not seen, though I had heard them. One
served in the shop, joking loudly with the customers in the local
accent. Yuki addressed her as “Auntie.” The other was more of a
servant. She did the cleaning and most of the food preparation,
always first up in the morning and the last to lie down at night. She
spoke very little, in a low voice with a northern accent. Her name
was Sadako. Everyone in the household bullied her cheerfully and
took advantage of her; her replies were always quiet and
deferential. I felt I knew these women, though I’d never set eyes
on either of them.

Akio and the other men, three of them, slept in a loft in the roof
space above the shop. Every night they took turns joining the
guards at the back of the house. Akio had done it the night before,
and I’d suffered for it, as sleeplessness added an extra edge to
his teasing. Before the maid went to bed, while the lamps were still
lit, I would hear one or other of the men help her close the doors
and the outer shutters, the wooden panels sliding into place with a
series of dull thumps that invariably set the dogs barking.

There were three dogs, each with its own distinctive voice. The
same man fed them every night, whistling to them through his teeth
in a particular way that I practiced when I was alone, thankful that no
one else had the Kikuta gift of hearing.

The front doors of the house were barred at night, and the rear
gates guarded, but one smaller door was left unbarred. It led into a
narrow space between the house and the outer wall, at the end of
which was the privy. I was escorted there three or four times a day.
I’d been out in the yard after dark a couple of times, to bathe in the
small bathhouse that stood in the backyard, between the end of the
house and the gates. Though I was kept hidden, it was, as Yuki
said, for my own safety. As far as I could tell, no one seriously
expected me to try and escape: I was not under guard.

I lay for a long time, listening to the sounds of the house. I could
hear the breathing of the women in the downstairs room, the men
in the loft. Beyond the walls the town gradually quieted. I had gone
into a state I recognized. I could not explain it, but it was as familiar
to me as my own skin. I did not feel either fear or excitement. My
brain switched off. I was all instinct, instinct and ears. Time altered
and slowed. It did not matter how long it took to open the door of
the concealed room. I knew I would do it eventually, and I would do
it soundlessly. Just as I would get to the outer door silently.

I was standing by this outer door, aware of every noise around me,
when I heard footsteps. Kenji’s wife got up, crossed the room
where she’d been sleeping, and went toward the concealed room.
The door slid; a few seconds passed. She came out of the room
and, a lamp in her hand, walked swiftly but not anxiously toward me.
Briefly I thought of going invisible, but I knew there was no point.
She would almost certainly be able to discern me, and if she
couldn’t she would raise the household.

Saying nothing, I jerked my head in the direction of the door that
led to the privy and went back to the hidden room. As I passed her
I was aware of her eyes on me. She didn’t say anything, either, just
nodded at me, but I felt she knew I was trying to get out.

The room was stuffier than ever. Sleep now seemed impossible. I
was still deep within my state of silent instinct. I tried to discern her
breathing, but could not hear it. Finally I convinced myself that she
must be asleep again. I got up, slowly opened the door, and
stepped out into the room. The lamp still burned. Kenji’s wife sat
there next to it. Her eyes were closed, but she opened them and
saw me standing in front of her.

“Going to piss again?” she said in her deep voice. I can't sleep.

“Sit down. I’ll make some tea.” She got to her feet in one
movement: Despite her age and size she was as lithe as a girl.
She put her hand on my shoulder and pushed me gently down onto
the matting.

“Don’t run away!” she warned, mockery in her voice.

I sat, but I was not really thinking. I was still bent on getting outside.
I heard the kettle hiss as she blew on the embers, heard the chink
of iron and pottery. She came back with the tea, knelt to pour it, and
handed me a bowl, which I leaned forward to take. The light
glowed between us. As I took the bowl I looked into her eyes, saw
the amusement and mockery in them, saw that she had been
flattering me before: She did not really believe in my talents. Then
her eyelids flickered and closed. I dropped the bowl, caught her as
she swayed, and set her down, already deeply asleep, on the
matting. In the lamplight the spilled tea steamed.

I should have been horrified, but I wasn’t. I just felt the cold
satisfaction that the skills of the Tribe bring with them. I was sorry
that I hadn’t thought of this before, but it had never occurred to me
that I would have any power at all over the wife of the Muto master.
I was mainly relieved that now nothing was going to stop me from
getting outside.

As I slipped through the side door into the yard, I heard the dogs
stir. I whistled to them, high and quiet so only they and I would
hear. One came padding up to investigate me, tail wagging. In the
way of all dogs, he liked me. I put out my hand. He laid his head on
it. The moon was low in the sky, but it gave enough light to make
his eyes shine yellow. We stared at each other for a few moments,
then he yawned, showing his big white teeth, lay down at my feet,
and slept.

Inside my head the thought niggled: A dog is one thing, the Muto
master’s wife is quite another. But I chose not to listen. I crouched
down and stroked the dog’s head a couple of times while I looked
at the wall. Of course, I had neither weapons nor tools. The
overhang of the wall’s roof was wide and so pitched that, without
grapples, it was impossible to get a handhold. In the end I climbed
onto the roof of the bathhouse and jumped across. I went invisible,
crept along the top of the wall away from the rear gate and the
guards, and dropped into the street just before the corner. I stood
against the wall for a few moments, listening. I heard the murmur of
voices from the guards. The dogs were silent and the whole town
seemed to sleep.

As I had done before, the night I climbed into Yamagata Castle, I
worked my way from street to street, heading in a zigzag direction
toward the river. The willow trees still stood beneath the setting
moon. The branches moved gently in the autumn wind, the leaves
already yellow, one or two floating down into the water.

I crouched in their shelter. I had no idea who controlled this town
now: The lord whom Shigeru had visited, Iida’s ally, had been
overthrown along with the Tohan when the town erupted at the
news of Shigeru’s death, but presumably Arai had installed some
kind of interim governor. I could not hear any sound of patrols. I
stared at the castle, unable to make out if the heads of the Hidden
whom I had released from torture into death had been removed or
not. I could hardly believe my own memory: It was as if I had
dreamed it or been told the story of someone else who had done
it.

I was thinking about that night and how I had swum beneath the
surface of the river when I heard footsteps approaching along the
bank: the ground was soft and damp and the footfall was muffled,
but whoever it was was quite close. I should have left then but I
was curious to see who would come to the river at this time of
night, and I knew he would not see me.

He was a man of less than average height and very slight; in the
darkness I could make out nothing else. He looked around furtively
and then knelt at the water’s edge as if he were praying. The wind
blew off the river, bringing the tang of water and mud, and along
with it the man’s own smell.

His scent was somehow familiar. I sniffed the air like a dog, trying
to place it. After a moment or two it came to me: It was the smell of
the tannery. This man must be a leather worker, therefore an
outcast. I knew then who he was: the man who had spoken to me
after I had climbed into the castle. His brother had been one of the
tortured Hidden to whom I had brought the release of death. I had
used my second self on the riverbank, and this man had thought he
had seen an angel and had spread the rumor of the Angel of
Yamagata. I could guess why he was there praying. He must also
be from the Hidden, maybe hoping to see the angel again. I
remembered how the first time I saw him I had thought I had to kill
him, but I had not been able to bring myself to do so. I gazed on
him now with the troubled affection you have for someone whose
life you have spared.

I felt something else, too; a pang of loss and regret for the
certainties of my childhood, for the words and rituals that had
comforted me then, seeming as eternal as the turn of the seasons
and the passage of the moon and the stars in the sky. I had been
plucked from my life among the Hidden when Shigeru had saved
me at Mino. Since then I had kept my origins concealed, never
speaking of them to anyone, never praying openly. But sometimes
at night I still prayed after the manner of the faith I was raised in, to
the Secret God that my mother worshipped, and now I felt a
yearning to approach this man and talk to him.

As an Otori lord, even as a member of the Tribe, I should have
shunned a leather worker, for they slaughter animals and are
considered unclean, but the Hidden believe all men are created
equal by the Secret God, and so I had been taught by my mother.
Still, some vestige of caution kept me out of sight beneath the
willow, though as I

heard his whispered prayer I found my tongue repeating the words
along with him.

I would have left it like that—I was not a complete fool, even
though that night I was behaving like one—if I had not caught the
sound of men approaching over the nearest bridge. It was a patrol
of some sort, probably Arai’s men, though I had no way of knowing
for sure. They must have stopped on the bridge and gazed down
the river. “There’s that lunatic,” I heard one say. “Makes me sick
having to see him there night after night.” His accent was local, but
the next man who spoke sounded as if he came from the West.
“Give him a beating, he’ll soon give up coming.”

“We’ve done that. Makes no difference.”

“Comes back for more, does he?”

“Let’s lock him up for a few nights.”

“Let’s just chuck him in the river.”

They laughed. I heard their footsteps grow louder as they began to
run, and then fade a little as they passed behind a row of houses.
They were still some way off; the man on the bank had heard
nothing. I was not going to stand by and watch while the guards
threw my man into the river. My man: He already belonged to me.

I slipped out from beneath the branches of the willow and ran
toward him. I tapped him on the shoulder and, when he turned, I
hissed at him, “Come, hide quickly!”

He recognized me at once and, with a great gasp of amazement,
threw himself at my feet, praying incoherently. In the distance I
could hear the patrol approaching down the street that ran along
the river. I shook the man, lifted his head, put my finger to my lips,
and, trying to remember not to look him in the eye, pulled him into
the shelter of the willows.

I should leave him here, I thought. I can go invisible and avoid the
patrol.

But then I heard them tramping round the corner and realized I was
too late.

The breeze ruffled the water and set the willow leaves quivering. In
the distance a cock crowed, a temple bell sounded.

“Gone!” a voice exclaimed, not ten paces from us.

Another man swore, “Filthy outcasts.”

“Which is worse, do you reckon, outcasts or Hidden?”

“Some are both! That’s the worst.”

I heard the slicing sigh of a sword being drawn. One of the soldiers
slashed at a clump of reeds and then at the willow itself. The man
next to me tensed. He was trembling but he made no sound. The
smell of tanned leather was so strong in my nostrils, I was sure the
guards would catch it, but the rank smell of the river must have
masked it.

I was thinking I might attract their attention away from the
outcast—split my self and somehow evade them—when a pair of
ducks, sleeping in the reeds, suddenly flew off, quacking loudly,
skimming the surface of the water and shattering the quiet of the
night. The men shouted in surprise, then jeered at each other.
They joked and grumbled for a little longer, threw stones at the
ducks, then left in the direction opposite the one they’d come from.
I heard their footsteps echo through the town, fading until even I
could hear them no more. I began to scold the man.

“What are you doing out at this time of night? They’d have thrown
you in the river if they’d found you.”

He bent his head to my feet again. “Sit up,” I urged him. “Speak to
me.”

He sat, glanced briefly upward at my face, and then dropped his
eyes. “I come every night I can,” he muttered. “I’ve been praying to
God for one more sight of you. I can never forget what you did for
my brother—for the rest of them.” He was silent for a moment, then
whispered, “I thought you were an angel. But people say you are
Lord Otori’s son. You killed Lord Iida in revenge for his death. Now
we have a new lord, Arai Daüchi from Kumamoto. His men have
been combing the town for you. I thought they must know you were
here. So I came tonight again to see you. Whatever form you
choose to come in, you must be one of God’s angels to do what
you did.”

It was a shock to hear my story repeated by this man. It brought
home to me the danger I was in. “Go home. Tell no one you saw
me.” I prepared to leave.

He did not seem to hear me. He was in an almost exalted state: His
eyes glittering, flecks of spittle shimmering on his lips. “Stay, lord,”
he exhorted me. “Every night I bring food for you, food and wine.
We must share them together; then you must bless me and I will
die happy.”

He took up a small bundle. Unwrapping the food and placing it on
the ground between us, he began to say the first prayer of the
Hidden. The familiar words made my neck tingle, and when he’d
finished I responded quietly with the second prayer. Together we
made the sign over the food and over ourselves, and I began to
eat.

The meal was pitifully sparse, a millet cake with a trace of smoked
fish skm buried in it, but it had all the elements of the rituals of my
childhood. The outcast brought out a small flask and poured from it
into a wooden bowl. It was some home-brewed liquor, far rougher
than wine, and we had no more than a mouthful each, but the smell
reminded me of my home. I felt my mother’s presence strongly
and tears pricked my eyelids.

“Are you a priest?” I whispered, wondering how he had escaped
the Tohan persecution.

“My brother was our priest. The one you released in mercy. Since
his death I do what I can for our people—those who are left.”

So

“Did many die under Iida?”

“In the East, hundreds. My parents fled here many years ago, and
under the Otori there was no persecution. But in the ten years
since Yaegahara, no one has been safe here. Now we have a new
overlord, Arai: No one knows which way he will jump. They say he
has other fish to gut. We may be left alone while he deals with the
Tribe.” His voice dropped to a whisper at this last word, as though
just to utter it was to invite retribution. “And that would only be
justice,” he went on, “for it’s they who are the murderers and the
assassins. Our people are harmless. We are forbidden to kill.” He
shot me an apologetic look. “Of course, lord, your case was
different.”

He had no idea how different, or how far I had gone from my
mother’s teaching. Dogs were barking in the distance, roosters
announced the coming day. I had to go, yet I was reluctant to
leave. “You’re not afraid?” I asked him.

“Often I am terrified. I don’t have the gift of courage. But my life is
in God’s hands. He has some plan for me. He sent you to us.”

“I am not an angel,” I said.

“How else would one of the Otori know our prayers?” he replied.
“Who but an angel would share food with someone like me?”

I knew the risk I was taking but I told him anyway. “Lord Shigeru
rescued me from Iida at Mino.”

I did not have to spell it out. He was silent for a moment as if awed.
Then he whispered, “Mino? We thought no one survived from
there. How strange are the ways of God. You have been spared for
some great purpose. If you are not an angel, you are marked by
the Secret One.” I shook my head. “I am the least of beings. My
life is not my own. Fate, which led me away from my own people,
has now led me away from the Otori.” I did not want to tell him I had
become one of the Tribe.

“You need help?” he said. “We will always help you. Come to us at
the outcasts’ bridge.”

“Where is that?”

“Where we tan the hides, between Yamagata and Tsuwano. Ask
for Jo-An.” He then said the third prayer, giving thanks for the food.

“I must go,” I said.

“First would you give me a blessing, lord.”

I placed my right hand on his head and began the prayer my
mother used to say to me. I felt uncomfortable, knowing I had little
right to speak these words, but they came easily off my tongue. Jo-
An took my hand and touched his forehead and lips to my fingers. I
realized then how deeply he trusted me. He released my hand and
bowed his head to the ground. When he raised it again, I was on
the far side of the street. The sky was paling, the dawn air cool.

I slipped back from doorway to doorway. The temple bell rang out.
The town was stirring, the first of the shutters were being taken
down, and the smell of smoke from kitchen fires wafted through
the streets. I had stayed far too long with Jo-An. I had not used my
second self all night, but I felt split in half, as if I had left my true
self permanently beneath the willow tree with him. The self that was
returning to the Tribe was hollow.

When I came to the Muto house the nagging thought that had been
at the back of my mind all night surfaced. How was I going to get
across the overhang of the wall from the street? The white plaster,
the gray tiles, shone in the dawn light, mocking me. I crouched in
the shelter of the house opposite, deeply regretting my own
rashness and stupidity. I’d lost my focus and concentration; my
hearing was as acute as ever, but the inner certainty, the instinct,
was gone.

I couldn’t stay where I was. In the distance I heard the tramp of
feet, the padding of hoofs. A group of men was approaching. Their
voices floated toward me. I thought I recognized the Western
accent that would mark them as Arai’s men. I knew that if they
found me, my life with the Tribe would be over: My life would
probably be over altogether if Arai was as insulted as had been
said.

I had no choice but to run to the gate and shout to the guards to
open it, but as I was about to cross the street, I heard voices from
beyond the wall. Akio was calling quietly to the guards. There was a
creak and a thud as the gate was unbarred.

The patrol turned into the far end of the street. I went invisible, ran
to the gate, and slipped inside.

The guards did not see me but Akio did, just as he had forestalled
me at Inuyama when the Tribe first seized me. He stepped into my
path and grabbed both arms.

I braced myself for the blows I was certain would follow, but he did
not waste any time. He pulled me swiftly toward the house.

The horses of the patrol were moving faster now, coming down the
street at a trot. I stumbled over the dog. It whimpered in its sleep.
The riders shouted to the guards at the gate, “Good morning!”

“What’ve you got there?” one of the guards replied. “None of your
business!”

As Akio pulled me up into the house I looked back. Through the
narrow space between the bath house and the wall, I could just see
the open gate and the street beyond.

Behind the horses two men on foot were dragging a captive
between them. I could not see him clearly but I could hear his
voice. I could hear his prayers. It was my outcast, Jo-An.

I must have made a lunge off the step toward the gate, for Akio
pulled me back with a force that almost dislocated my shoulder.
Then he did hit me, silently and efficiently on the side of the neck.
The room spun sickeningly. Still without speaking, he dragged me
into the main room where the maid was sweeping the matting. She
took no notice of us at all.

He called out to the kitchen as he opened the wall of the hidden
room and pushed me inside. Kenji’s wife came into the room and
Akio slid the door shut.

Her face was pale and her eyes puffy, as though she were still
fighting sleep. I could feel her fury before she spoke. She slapped
me twice across the face. “You little bastard! You half-bred idiot!
How dare you do that to me.”

Akio pushed me to the floor, still holding my arms behind my back.
I lowered my head in submission. There didn’t seem to be any
point in saying anything.

“Kenji warned me you’d try to get out. I didn’t believe him. Why did
you do it?”

When I didn’t reply, she knelt, too, and raised my head so she
could see my face. I kept my eyes turned away.

“Answer me! Are you insane?”

“Just to see if I could.”

She sighed in exasperation, sounding like her husband.

“I don’t like being shut in,” I muttered.

“It’s madness,” Akio said angrily. “He’s a danger to us all. We
should—”

She interrupted him swiftly. “That decision can only be taken by the
Kikuta master. Until then, our task is to try to keep him alive and out
of Arai’s hands.” She gave me another cuff round the head, but a
less serious one. “Who saw you?”

“No one. Just an outcast.”

“What outcast?”

“A leather worker. Jo-An.”

“Jo-An? The lunatic? The one who saw the angel?” She took a
deep breath. “Don’t tell me he saw you.”

“We talked for a while,” I admitted.

“Arai’s men have already picked the outcast up,” Akio said. “I hope
you realize just what a fool you are,” she said. I bowed my head
again. I was thinking about Jo-An, wishing I’d seen him home—if
he had any home in Yamagata—wondering if I could rescue him,
demanding silently to know what his god’s purpose was for him
now. I am often afraid, he had said. Terrified. Pity and remorse
twisted my heart.

“Find out what the outcast gives away,” Kenji’s wife said to Akio.
“He won’t betray me,” I said.

“Under torture, everyone betrays,” he replied briefly. “We should
hasten your journey,” she went on. “Perhaps you should even
leave today.”

Akio was still kneeling behind me, holding me by the wrists. I felt
the movement as he nodded.

“Is he to be punished?” he said.

“No, he has to be able to travel. Besides, as you should have
realized by now, physical punishment makes no impression on
him. However, make sure he knows exactly what the outcast
suffers. His head may be stubborn but his heart is soft.”

“The masters say it is his main weakness,” Akio remarked. “Yes, if
it weren’t for that we might have another Shintaro.”

“Soft hearts can be hardened,” Akio muttered. “Well, you Kikuta
know best how to do that.” I remained kneeling on the floor while
they discussed me as coldly as if I were some commodity, a vat of
wine, perhaps, that might turn out to be a particularly fine one or
might be tainted and worthless.

“What now?” Akio said. “Is he to be tied up until we leave?”

“Kenji said you chose to come to us,” she said to me. “If that’s
true, why do you try to escape?”

“I came back.”

“Will you try again?”

“No.”

“You will go to Matsue with the actors and do nothing to endanger
them or yourself?”

“Yes.”

She thought for a moment and told Akio to tie me up anyway. After
he’d done so, they left me to make the preparations for our
departure. The maid came with a tray of food and tea and helped
me to eat and drink without saying a word. After she had taken
away the bowls, no one came near me. I listened to the sound of
the house and thought I discerned all the harshness and cruelty
that lay beneath its everyday song. A huge weariness came over
me. I crawled to the mattress, made myself as comfortable as I
could, thought hopelessly of Jo-An and my own stupidity, and fell
asleep.

I woke suddenly, my heart pounding, my throat dry. I had been
dreaming of the outcast, a terrible dream in which, from far away,
an insistent voice, as small as a mosquito’s, was whispering
something only I could hear.

Akio must have had his face pressed up against the outside wall.
He described every detail of Jo-An’s torture at the hands of Arai’s
men. It went on and on in a slow monotone, making my skin crawl
and my stomach turn. Now and then he would fall silent for long
periods; I would think with relief it was over, then his voice would
begin again.

I could not even put my fingers in my ears. There was no escape
from it. Kenji’s wife was right: It was the worst punishment she
could have devised for me. I wished above all I had killed the
outcast when I first saw him on the riverbank. Pity had stayed my
hand then, but that pity had had fatal results. I would have given Jo-
An a swift and merciful death. Now, because of me, he was
suffering torment.

When Akio’s voice finally died away, I heard Yuki’s tread outside.
She stepped into the room carrying a bowl, scissors, and a razor.
The maid, Sadako, followed her with an armful of clothes, placed
them on the floor, and then went silently out of the room. I heard
Sadako tell Akio that the midday meal was ready and heard him get
to his feet and follow her to the kitchen. The smell of food floated
through the house, but I had no appetite.

“I have to cut your hair,” Yuki said. I still wore it in the warrior-style,
restrained as Ichiro, my former teacher in Shigeru’s household,
had insisted, but unmistakable, the forehead shaved, the back hair
caught up in a topknot. It had not been trimmed for weeks, nor had
I shaved my face, though I still had very little beard.

Yuki untied my hands and legs and made me sit in front of her.
“You are an idiot,” she said as she began to cut.

I didn’t answer. I was already aware of that but also knew I would
probably do the same thing again.

“My mother was so angry. I don’t know which surprised her more:
that you were able to put her to sleep, or that you dared to.”

Bits of hair were falling around me. “At the same time she was
almost excited,” Yuki went on. “She says you remind her of
Shintaro when he was your age.”

“She knew him?”

“I’ll tell you a secret: She burned for him. She’d have married him,
but it didn’t suit the Tribe, so she married my father instead.

Anyway, I don’t think she could bear for anyone to have that power
over her. Shintaro was a master of the Kikuta sleep: No one was
safe from him.“

Yuki was animated, more chatty than I’d ever known her. I could
feel her hand trembling slightly against my neck as the scissors
snipped cold on my scalp. I remembered Kenji’s dismissive words
about his wife, the girls he’d slept with. Their marriage was like
most, an arranged alliance between two families.

“If she’d married Shintaro, I would have been someone else,” Yuki
said pensively. “I don’t think she ever stopped loving him, in her
heart.”

“Even though he was a murderer?”

“He wasn’t a murderer! No more than you are.”

Something in her voice told me the conversation was moving onto
dangerous ground. I found Yuki very attractive. I knew she had
strong feelings for me. But I did not feel for her what I had felt for
Kaede, and I did not want to be talking about love.

I tried to change the subject. “I thought the sleep thing was
something only Kikuta do. Wasn’t Shintaro from the Kuroda
family?”

“On his father’s side. His mother was Kikuta. Shintaro and your
father were cousins.”

It chilled me to think that the man whose death I’d caused, whom
everyone said I resembled, should have been a relative.

“What exactly happened the night Shintaro died?” Yuki said
curiously.

“I heard someone climbing into the house. The window of the first
floor was open because of the heat. Lord Shigeru wanted to take
him alive, but when he seized him, we all three fell into the garden.
The intruder struck his head on a rock, but we thought he also took
poison in the moment of the fall. Anyway, he died without regaining
consciousness. Your father confirmed it was Kuroda Shintaro.
Later we learned that Shigeru’s uncles, the Otori lords, had hired
him to assassinate Shigeru.”

“It’s extraordinary,” Yuki said, “that you should have been there and
no one knew who you were.”

I answered her unguardedly, disarmed, perhaps, by the memories
of that night. “Not so extraordinary. Shigeru was looking for me
when he rescued me at Mino. He already knew of my existence
and knew my father had been an assassin.” Lord Shigeru had told
me this when we had talked in Tsuwano. I had asked him if that
was why he had sought me out, and he had told me it was the main
reason but not the only one. I never found out what the other
reasons might have been, and now I never would.

Yuki’s hands had gone still. “My father was not aware of that.”

“No, he was allowed to believe that Shigeru acted on an impulse,
that he saved my life and brought me back to Hagi purely by
chance.”

“You can’t be serious?”

Too late, her intensity aroused my suspicions. “What does it matter
now?”

“How did Lord Otori find out something that even the Tribe had not
suspected? What else did he tell you?”

“He told me many things,” I said impatiently. “He and Ichiro taught
me almost everything I know.”

“I mean about the Tribe!”

I shook my head as if I did not understand. “Nothing. I know
nothing about the Tribe other than what your father taught me and
what I’ve learned here.”

She stared at me. I avoided looking at her directly. “There’s a
whole lot more to learn,” she said finally. “I’ll be able to teach you
on the road.”

She ran her hands over my cropped hair and stood in one
movement, as her mother had. “Put these on. I’ll bring you
something to eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” I said, reaching over and picking up the clothes.
Once brightly colored, they had faded to dull orange and brown. I
wondered who had worn them and what had befallen him on the
road.

“We have many hours of travel ahead,” she said. “We may not eat
again today. Whatever Akio and I tell you to do, you do. If we tell
you to brew the dirt under our fingernails and drink it, you do it. If
we say eat, you eat. And you don’t do anything else. We learned
this sort of obedience when we were children. You have to learn it
now.”

I wanted to ask her if she had been obedient when she’d brought
Shigeru’s sword, Jato, to me in Inuyama, but it seemed wiser to
say nothing. I changed into the actor’s clothes, and when Yuki
came back with food, I ate without question.

She watched me silently, and when I finished she said, “The
outcast is dead.”

They wanted my heart hardened. I did not look at her or reply.

“He said nothing about you,” she went on. “I did not know an
outcast would have such courage. He had no poison to release
himself. Yet, he said nothing.”

I thanked Jo-An in my heart, thanked the Hidden who take their
secrets with them… where? Into Paradise? Into another life? Into
the silencing fire, the silent grave? I wanted to pray for him, after
the fashion of our people. Or light candles and burn incense for
him, as Ichiro and Chiyo had taught me in Shigeru’s house in Hagi.
I thought of Jo-An going alone into the dark. What would his
people do without him?

“Do you pray to anyone?” I asked Yuki.

“Of course,” she said, surprised.

“Who to?”

“The Enlightened One, in all his forms. The gods of the mountain,
the forest, the river: all the old ones. This morning I took rice and
flowers to the shrine at the bridge to ask a blessing on our journey.
I’m glad we’re leaving today after all. It’s a good day for traveling:
All the signs are favorable.” She looked at me as if she were
thinking it all over, then shook her head. “Don’t ask things like that.
It makes you sound so different. No one else would ask that.”

“No one else has lived my life.”

“You’re one of the Tribe now. Try and behave like it.” She took a
small bag from inside her sleeve and passed it to me. “Here. Akio
said to give you these.”

I opened it and felt inside, then tipped the contents out. Five
juggler’s balls, smooth and firm, packed with rice grain, fell to the
floor. Much as I hated juggling, it was impossible not to pick them
up and handle them. With three in my right hand and two in my left,
I stood up. The feel of the balls, the actor’s clothes, had already
turned me into someone else.

“You are Minoru,” Yuki said. “These would have been given to you
by your father. Akio is your older brother; I’m your sister.”

“We don’t look very alike,” I said, tossing the balls up. “We will
become alike enough,” Yuki replied. “My father said you could
change your features to some extent.”

“What happened to our father?” Round and back the balls went,
the circle, the fountain… “He’s dead.”

“Convenient.”

She ignored me. “We’re traveling to Matsue for the autumn festival.
It will take five or six days, depending on the weather. Arai still has
men looking for you, but the main search here is over. He has al-
ready left for Inuyama. We travel in the opposite direction. At night
we have safe houses to go to. But the road belongs to no one. If
we meet any patrols, you’ll have to prove who you are.”

I dropped one of the balls and bent to retrieve it.

“You can’t drop them,” Yuki said. “No one of your age ever drops
them. My father also said you could impersonate well. Don’t bring
any of us into danger.”

We LEFT from the back entrance. Kenjis wife came out to bid us
farewell. She looked me over, checked my hair and clothes. “I
hope we meet again,” she said. “But, knowing your recklessness, I
hardly expect it.”

I bowed to her, saying nothing. Akio was already in the yard with a
handcart like the one I’d been bundled into in Inuyama. He told me
to get inside and I climbed in among the props and costumes. Yuki
handed me my knife. I was pleased to see it again and tucked it
away inside my clothes.

Akio lifted the cart handles and began to push. I rocked through the
town in semidarkness, listening to its sounds and to the speech of
the actors. I recognized the voice of the other girl from Inuyama,
Keiko. There was one other man with us, too; I’d heard his voice in
the house but had not set eyes on him.

When we were well beyond the last houses, Akio stopped, opened
the side of the cart, and told me to get out. It was about the second
half of the Hour of the Goat and still very warm, despite the onset
of autumn. Akio gleamed with sweat. He had removed most of his
clothes to push the cart. I could see how strong he was. He was
taller than me, and much more muscular. He went to drink from the
stream that ran beside the road and splashed water onto his head
and face. Yuki, Keiko, and the older man were squatting by the
side of the road. I would hardly have recognized any of them. They
were completely transformed into a troupe of actors making a
precarious living from town to town, existing on their wits and
talents, always on the verge of starvation or crime.

The man gave me a grin, showing his missing teeth. His face was
lean, expressive, and slightly sinister. Keiko ignored me. Like Akio,
she had half-healed scars on one hand, from my knife.

I took a deep breath. Hot as it was, it was infinitely better than the
room I’d been shut up in and the stifling cart. Behind us lay the
town of Yamagata, the castle white against the mountains, which
were still mostly green and luxuriant, with splashes of color here
and there where the leaves had started to turn. The rice fields were
turning gold too. It would soon be harvest time. To the southwest I
could see the steep slope of Terayama, but the roofs of the
temple were invisible behind the cedars. Beyond lay fold after fold
of mountains, turning blue in the distance, shimmering in the
afternoon haze. Silently I said farewell to Shigeru, reluctant to turn
away and break my last tie with him and with my life as one of the
Otori.

Akio gave me a blow on the shoulder. “Stop dreaming like an
imbecile,” he said, his voice changed into a rougher accent and
dialect. “It’s your turn to push.”

By the time evening came I’d conceived the deepest hatred
possible for that cart. It was heavy and unwieldy, blistering the
hands and straining the back. Pulling it uphill was bad enough, as
the wheels caught in potholes and ruts and it took all of us to get it
free, but hanging on to it downhill was even harder. I would happily
have let go and sent it hurtling into the forest. I thought longingly of
my horse, Raku.

The older man, Kazuo, walked alongside me, helping me to adjust
my accent and telling me the words I needed to know in the private
language of actors. Some Kenji had already taught me, the dark
street slang of the Tribe; some were new to me. I mimicked him,
as I’d mimicked Ichiro, my Otori teacher, in a very different kind of
learning, and tried to think myself into becoming Minoru.

Toward the end of the day, when the light was beginning to fade,
we descended a slope toward a village. The road leveled out and
the surface grew smoother. A man walking home called the
evening greeting to us.

I could smell wood smoke and food cooking. All around me rose
the sounds of the village at the end of the day: the splash of water
as the farmers washed, children playing and squabbling, women
gossiping as they cooked, the crackle of the fires, the chink of ax
on wood, the shrine bell, the whole web of life that I’d been raised
in.

And I caught something else: the clink of a bridle, the muffled
stamp of a horse’s feet.

“There’s a patrol ahead,” I said to Kazuo.

He held up his hand for us to stop and called quietly to Akio,
“Minoru says there’s a patrol.”

Akio squinted at me against the setting sun. “You heard them?”

“I can hear horses. What else would it be?”

He nodded and shrugged as if to say, As good now as anytime.
“Take the cart.”

As I took Akio’s place Kazuo began to sing a rowdy comic song.
He had a good voice. It rang out into the still evening air. Yuki
reached into the cart and took out a small drum, which she threw to
Akio. Catching it, he began to beat out the rhythm of the song. Yuki
also brought out a one-stringed instrument that she twanged as
she walked beside us. Keiko had spinning tops, like the ones that
had captured my attention at Inuyama.

Singing and playing, we rounded the corner and came to the patrol.
They had set up a bamboo barrier just before the first houses of
the village. There were about nine or ten men, most of them sitting
on the ground, eating. They wore Arai’s bear crest on their jackets;
the setting-sun banners of the Seishuu had been erected on the
bank. Four horses grazed beneath them.

A swarm of children hung around, and when they saw us they ran
toward us, shouting and giggling. Kazuo broke off his song to
direct a couple of riddles at them and then shouted impudently to
the soldiers, “What’s going on, lads?”

Their commander rose to his feet and approached us. We all
immediately dropped to the dust.

“Get up,” he said. “Where’ve you come from?” He had a squarish
face with heavy brows, a thin mouth, and a clenched jaw. He wiped
the rice from his lips on the back of his hand.

“Yamagata.” Akio handed the drum to Yuki and held out a wooden
tablet. It had our names inscribed on it, the name of our guild and
our license from the city. The commander gazed at it for a long
time, deciphering our names, every now and then looking across at
each of us in turn, scanning our faces. Keiko was spinning the
tops. The men watched her with more than idle interest. Players
were the same as prostitutes as far as they were concerned. One
of them made a mocking suggestion to her; she laughed back.

I leaned against the cart and wiped the sweat from my face.
“What’s he do, Minoru?” the commander said, handing the tablet
back to Akio.

“My younger brother? He’s a juggler. It’s the family calling.”

“Let’s see him,” the commander said, his thin lips parting in a sort
of smile.

Akio did not hesitate for a moment. “Hey, Little Brother. Show the
lord.”

I wiped my hands on my head band and tied it back round my
head. I took the balls from the bag, felt their smooth weight, and in
an instant became Minoru. This was my life. I had never known any
other: the road, the new village, the suspicious, hostile stares. I
forgot my tiredness, my aching head and blistered hands. I was
Minoru, doing what I’d done since I was old enough to stand.

The balls flew in the air. I did four first, then five. I’d just finished the
second sequence of the fountain when Akio jerked his head at me.
I let the balls flow in his direction. He caught them effortlessly,
throwing the tablet into the air with them. Then he sent them back to
me. The sharp edge of the tablet caught my blistered palm. I was
angry with him, wondering what his intention was: to show me up?
To betray me? I lost the rhythm. Tablet and balls fell into the dust.

The smile left the commander’s face. He took a step forward. In
that moment a mad impulse came into my mind: to give myself up
to him, throw myself on Arai’s mercy, escape the Tribe before it
was too late.

Akio seemed to fly toward me. “Idiot!” he yelled, giving me a cuff
round the ear. “Our father would cry out from his grave!”

As soon as he raised his hand to me, I knew my disguise would
not be penetrated. It would have been unthinkable for an actor to
strike an Otori warrior. The blow turned me into Minoru again, as
nothing else could have done.

“Forgive me, Older Brother,” I said, picking up the balls and the
tablet; I kept them spinning in the air until the commander laughed
and waved us forward.

“Come and see us tonight!” Keiko called to the soldiers.

“Yes, tonight,” they called back.

Kazuo began to sing again, Yuki to beat the drum. I threw the tablet
to Akio and put the balls away. They were darkened with blood. I
picked up the handles of the cart. The barrier was lifted aside and
we walked through to the village beyond.

Kaede set out on the last day of her journey home on a perfect
autumn morning, the sky clear blue, the air cool and thin as spring
water. Mist hung in the valleys and above the river, silvering
spiders’ webs and the tendrils of wild clematis. But just before
noon the weather began to change. Clouds crept over the sky from
the northwest, and the wind swung. The light seemed to fade early,
and before evening it began to rain.

The rice fields, vegetable gardens, and fruit trees had all been
severely damaged by storms. The villages seemed half-empty,
and the few people around stared sullenly at her, bowing only when
threatened by the guards and then with bad grace. She did not
know if they recognized her or not; she did not want to linger
among them, but she could not help wondering why the damage
was unrepaired, why the men were not working in the fields to
salvage what they could of the harvest.


Her heart did not know how to behave. Sometimes it slowed in
foreboding, making her feel that she might faint, and then it sped
up, beating frantically in excitement and fear. The miles left to
travel seemed endless, and yet, the horses’ steady step ate them
up all too quickly. She was afraid above all of what faced her at
home.

She kept seeing views she thought were familiar, and her heart
would leap in her throat, but when they came at last to the walled
garden and the gates of her parents’ home, she did not recognize
any of it. Surely this was not where she lived? It was so small; it
was not even fortified and guarded. The gates stood wide open.
As Raku stepped through them Kaede could not help gasping.

Shizuka had already slid from the horse’s back. She looked up.
“What is it, lady?”

“The garden!” Kaede exclaimed. “What happened to it?”

Everywhere were signs of the ferocity of the storms. An uprooted
pine tree lay across the stream. In its fall it had knocked over and
crushed a stone lantern. Kaede had a flash of memory: the lantern,
newly erected, a light burning in it, evening, the Festival of the
Dead perhaps; a lamp floated away downstream, and she felt her
mothers hand against her hair.

She gazed, uncomprehending, at the ruined garden. It was more
than storm damage. Obviously it had been months since anyone
had tended the shrubs or the moss, cleared out the pools, or
pruned the trees. Was this her house, one of the key domains of
the West? What had happened to the once powerful Shirakawa?

The horse lowered his head and rubbed it against his foreleg. He
whinnied, impatient and tired, expecting now that they had stopped
to be unsaddled and fed.

“Where are the guards?” Kaede said. “Where is everyone?”

The man she called Scar, the captain of the escort, rode his horse
up to the veranda, leaned forward, and shouted, “Hello! Anyone
within?”

“Don’t go in,” she called to him. “Wait for me. I will go inside first.”
Long Arm was standing by Raku’s head, holding the bridle. Kaede
slid from the horse’s back into Shizuka’s arms. The rain had turned
to a fine, light drizzle that beaded their hair and clothes. The garden
smelled rankly of dampness and decay, sour earth, and fallen
leaves. Kaede felt the image of her childhood home, kept intact
and glowing in her heart for eight long years, intensify unbearably,
and then it vanished forever.

Long Arm gave the bridle to one of the foot soldiers and, drawing
his sword, went in front of Kaede. Shizuka followed them.

As she stepped out of her sandals onto the veranda, it seemed the
feel of the wood was faintly familiar to her feet. But she did not
recognize the smell of the house at all. It was a stranger’s home.

There was a sudden movement from within, and Long Arm leaped
forward into the shadows. A girl’s voice cried out in alarm. The man
pulled her onto the veranda.

“Let go of her,” Kaede commanded in fury. “How dare you touch
her?”

“He is only protecting you,” Shizuka murmured, but Kaede was not
listening. She stepped toward the girl, taking her hands and staring
into her face. She was almost the same height as Kaede, with a
gentle face and light-brown eyes like their father’s.

“Ai? I am your sister, Kaede. Don’t you remember me?” The girl
gazed back. Her eyes filled with tears. “Sister? Is it really you? For
a moment, against the light… I thought you were our mother.”

Kaede took her sister in her arms, feeling tears spring into her own
eyes. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”
“Over two months ago. Her last words were of you. She longed to
see you, but the knowledge of your marriage brought her peace.”
Ai’s voice faltered and she drew back from Kaede’s embrace.
“Why have you come here? Where is your husband?”

“Have you had no news from Inuyama?”

“We have been battered by typhoons this year. Many people died
and the harvest was ruined. We’ve heard so little—only rumors of
war. After the last storm an army swept through, but we hardly
understood who they were fighting for or why.”

Aral’s army?

“They were Seishuu from Maruyama and farther south. They were
going to join Lord Arai against the Tohan. Father was outraged, for
he considered himself an ally to Lord Iida. He tried to stop them
from passing through here. He met them near the Sacred Caves.
They attempted to reason with him, but he attacked them.”

“Father fought them? Is he dead?”

“No, he was defeated, of course, and most of his men were killed,
but he still lives. He thinks Arai a traitor and an upstart. He had
sworn allegiance, after all, to the Noguchi when you went as a
hostage.”

“The Noguchi were overthrown, I am no longer a hostage, and I am
in alliance with Arai,” Kaede said.

Her sister’s eyes widened. “I don’t understand. I don’t understand
any of it.” She seemed conscious for the first time of Shizuka and
the men outside. She made a helpless gesture. “Forgive me, you
must be exhausted. You have come a long way. The men must be
hungry.” She frowned, suddenly looking like a child. “What shall I
do?” she whispered. “We have so little to offer you.”

“Are there no servants left?”

“I sent them to hide in the forest when we heard the horses. I think
they will come back before nightfall.”

“Shizuka,” Kaede said, “go to the kitchen and see what there is.
Prepare food and drink for the men. They may rest here tonight. I
shall need at least ten to stay on with me.” She pointed at Long
Arm. “Let him pick them. The others must return to Inuyama. If they
harm any of my people or my possessions in any way, they will
answer with their lives.”

Shizuka bowed. “Lady.”

“I’ll show you the way,” Ai said, and led Shizuka toward the back of
the house.

“What is your name?” Kaede said to Long Arm. He dropped to his
knees before her. “Kondo, lady.”

“Are you one of Lord Aral’s men?”

“My mother was from the Seishuu. My father, if I may trust you with
my secrets, was from the Tribe. I fought with Arai’s men at
Kushimoto, and was asked to enter his service.”

She looked down at him. He was not a young man. His hair was
gray-streaked, the skin on his neck lined. She wondered what his
past had been, what work he had done for the Tribe, how far she
could trust him. But she needed a man to handle the soldiers and
the horses and defend the house; Kondo had saved Shizuka, he
was feared and respected by Arai’s other men, and he had the
fighting skills she required.

“I may need your help for a few weeks,” she said. “Can I depend
on you?”

He looked up at her then. In the gathering darkness she could not
make out his expression. His teeth gleamed white as he smiled,
and when he spoke his voice had a ring of sincerity, even devotion.
“Lady Otori can depend on me as long as she needs me.”

“Swear it, then,” she said, feeling herself flush as she pretended
an authority she was not sure she possessed.

The lines around his eyes crinkled momentarily. He touched his
forehead to the matting and swore allegiance to her and her family,
but she thought she detected a note of irony in his voice. The Tribe
always dissemble, she thought, chilled. Moreover, they answer only
to themselves, “Go and select ten men you can trust,” she said.
“See how much feed there is for the horses, and if the barns
provide shelter enough.”

“Lady Otori,” he replied, and again she thought she heard irony.
She wondered how much he knew, how much Shizuka had told
him. After a few moments Ai returned, took Kaede’s hand, and said
quietly, “Should I tell Father?”

“Where is he? What is his condition? Was he wounded?”

“He was wounded slightly. But it is not the injury… Our mother’s
death, the loss of so many men… sometimes his mind seems to
wander, and he does not seem to know where he is. He talks to
ghosts and apparitions.”

“Why did he not take his own life?”

“When he was first brought back, he wanted to.” Ai’s voice broke
completely and she began to weep. “I prevented him. I was so
weak. Hana and I clung to him and begged him not to leave us. I
took away his weapons.” She turned her tear-streaked face to
Kaede. “It’s all my fault. I should have had more courage. I should
have helped him to die and then killed myself and Hana, as a
warriors daughter should. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t take her life,
and I couldn’t leave her alone. So we live in shame, and it is driving Father mad.”

Kaede thought, I also should have killed myself, as soon as I heard
Lord Shigeru had been betrayed. But I did not. Instead, I killed
Iida. She touched Ai on the cheek, felt the wetness of tears.

“Forgive me,” Ai whispered. “I have been so weak.”

“No,” Kaede replied. “Why should you die?” Her sister was only
thirteen; she had committed no crime. “Why should any of us
choose death?” she said. “We will live instead. Where is Hana
now?”

“I sent her to the forest with the women.”

Kaede had rarely felt compassion before. Now it woke within her,
as painful as grief. She remembered how the White Goddess had
come to her. The All-Merciful One had consoled her, had promised
that Takeo would return to her. But together with the goddess’s
promise had come the demands of compassion, that Kaede
should live to take care of her sisters, her people, her unborn child.
From outside she could hear Kondo’s voice giving orders, the men
shouting in reply. A horse whinnied and another answered. The rain
had strengthened, beating out a pattern of sound that seemed
familiar to her.

“I must see Father,” she said. “Then we must feed the men. Will
anyone help from the villages?”

“Just before Mother died, the farmers sent a delegation. They
were complaining about the rice tax, the state of the dikes and
fields, the loss of the harvest. Father was furious. He refused even
to talk to them. Ayame persuaded them to leave us alone because
Mother was sick. Since then everything has been in confusion. The
villagers are afraid of Father: They say he is cursed.”

“What about our neighbors?”

“There is Lord Fujiwara. He used to visit Father occasionally.”

“I don’t remember him. What sort of a man is he?”

“He’s strange. Rather elegant and cold. He is of very high birth,
they say, and used to live in the capital.”

“Inuyama?”

“No, the real capital, where the Emperor lives.”

“He is a nobleman, then?”

“I suppose he must be. He speaks differently from people round
here. I can hardly understand him. He seems a very erudite man.
Father liked talking to him about history and the classics.“

“Well, if he ever calls on Father again, perhaps I will seek his
advice.” Kaede was silent for a moment. She was fighting
weariness. Her limbs ached and her belly felt heavy. She longed to
lie down and sleep. And somewhere within herself she felt guilty
that she was not grieving more. It was not that she did not suffer
anguish for her mother’s death and her father’s humiliation, but she
had no space left in her soul for any more grief, and no energy to
give to it.

She looked round the room. Even in the twilight she could see the
matting was old, the walls water-stained, the screens torn. Ai
followed her gaze. “I’m ashamed,” she whispered. “There’s been
so much to do, and so much I don’t know how to do.”

“I almost seem to remember how it used to be,” Kaede said. “It
had a glow about it.”

“Mother made it like that,” Ai said, stifling a sob.

“We will make it like that again,” Kaede promised.

From the direction of the kitchen there suddenly came the sound
of someone singing. Kaede recognized Shizuka’s voice, and the
song as the one she had heard the first time she met her, the love
ballad about the village and the pine tree.

How does she have the courage to sing now? she thought, and
then Shi-zuka came quickly into the room carrying a lamp in each
hand.

“I found these in the kitchen,” she said, “and luckily the fire was still
burning. Rice and barley are cooking. Kondo has sent men to the
village to buy whatever they can. And the household women have
returned.”

“Our sister will be with them,” Ai said, breathing a sigh of relief.

“Yes, she has brought an armful of herbs and mushrooms that she
insists on cooking.”

Ai blushed. “She has become half-wild,” she began to explain.

“Let me see her,” Kaede said. “Then you must take me to Father.”

Ai went out, Kaede heard a few words of argument from the
kitchen, and seconds later Ai returned with a girl of about nine
years old.

“This is our older sister, Kaede. She left home when you were a
baby,” Ai said to Hana, and then, prompting her, “Greet your older
sister properly.”

“Welcome home,” Hana whispered, then dropped to her knees
and bowed to Kaede. Kaede knelt in front of her, took her hands,
and raised her. She looked into her face.

“I was younger than you are now when I left home,” she said,
studying the fine eyes, the perfect bone structure beneath the
childish roundness.

“She is like you, lady,” Shizuka said.

“I hope she will be happier,” Kaede replied and, drawing Hana to
her, hugged her. She felt the slight body begin to shake, and
realized the child was crying.

“Mother! I want Mother!”

Kaede’s own eyes filled with tears.

“Hush, Hana, don’t cry, little sister.” Ai tried to soothe her. “I’m
sorry,” she said to Kaede. “She is still grieving. She has not been
taught how to behave.”

Well, she will learn, Kaede thought, as I had to. She will learn not to
let her feelings show, to accept that life is made up of suffering
and loss, to cry in private if she cries at all.

“Come,” Shizuka said, taking Hana by the hand. “You have to show
me how to cook the mushrooms. I don’t know these local ones.

Her eyes met Kaede’s above the child’s head, and her smile was
warm and cheerful.

“Your woman is wonderful,” Ai said as they left. “How long has she
been with you?”

“She came to me a few months ago, just before I left Noguchi
Castle,” Kaede replied. The two sisters remained kneeling on the
floor, not knowing what to say to each other. The rain fell heavily
now, streaming from the eaves like a curtain of steel arrows. It was
nearly dark. Kaede thought, I cannot tell Ai that Lord Ami himself
sent Shizuka to me, as part of the conspiracy to overthrow lida, or
that Shizuka is from the Tribe. I cannot tell her anything. She is so
young, she has never left Shirakawa, she knows nothing of the
world.

“I suppose we should go to Father,” she said.

But at that moment she heard his voice calling from a distant part
of the house. “Ai! Ayame!” His footsteps approached. He was
complaining softly. “Ah, they’ve all gone away and left me. These
worthless women!”

He came into the room and stopped short when he saw Kaede.

“Who’s there? Do we have visitors? Who’s come at this time of
night in the rain?”

Ai stood and went to him. “It’s Kaede, your oldest daughter. She
has returned. She’s safe.”

“Kaede?” He took a step toward her. She did not stand but,
remaining where she was, bowed deeply, touching her forehead to
the floor.

Ai helped her father down. He knelt in front of Kaede. “Sit up, sit
up,” he said impatiently. “Let us see the worst in each other.”

“Father?” she questioned as she raised her head.

“I am a shamed man,” he said. “I should have died. I did not. I am
hollow now, only partly alive. Look at me, daughter.”

It was true that terrible changes had been wrought in him. He had
always been controlled and dignified. Now he seemed a husk of
his former self. There was a half-healed slash from temple to left
ear; the hair had been shaved away from the wound. His feet were
bare and his robe stained, his jaw was dark with stubble.

“What happened to you?” she said, trying to keep the anger out of
her voice. She had come seeking refuge, looking for the lost
childhood home she had spent eight years mourning, only to find it
almost destroyed.

Her father made a weary gesture. “What does it matter? Everything
is lost, ruined. Your return is the final blow. What happened to your
marriage to Lord Otori? Don’t tell me he is dead.”

“Through no fault of mine,” she said bitterly. “lida murdered him.”

His lips tightened and his face paled. “We have heard nothing
here.”

“lida is also dead,” she went on. “Arai’s forces have taken Inuyama.
The Tohan are overthrown.”

The mention of Aral’s name obviously disturbed him. “That traitor,”
he muttered, staring into the darkness as though ghosts gathered
there. “He defeated lida?” After a pause he went on, “I seem to
have once again found myself on the losing side. My family must
be under some curse. For the first time I am glad I have no son to
inherit from me. Shirakawa can fade away, regretted by no one.”

“You have three daughters!” Kaede responded, stung into anger.

“And my oldest is also cursed, bringing death to any man
connected with her!”

“Iida caused Lord Otori’s death! It was a plot from the start. My
marriage was designed to bring him to Inuyama and into Iida’s
hands.” The rain drummed hard against the roof, cascading from
the eaves. Shizuka came in silently with more lamps, placed them
on the floor, and knelt behind Kaede. I must control myself, Kaede
thought. I must not tell him everything.

He was staring at her, his face puzzled. “So, are you married or
not?” Her heart was racing. She had never lied to her father. Now
she found she could not speak. She turned her head away, as if
overcome by grief.

Shizuka whispered. “May I speak, Lord Shirakawa?”

“Who is she?” he said to Kaede.

“She is my maid. She came to me at Noguchi Castle.” He nodded
in Shizuka’s direction. “What do you have to say?”

“Lady Shirakawa and Lord Otori were married secretly at Ter-
ayama,” Shizuka said in a low voice. “Your kinswoman was witness,
but she also died at Inuyama, along with her daughter.”

“Maruyama Naomi is dead? Things get worse and worse. The
domain will be lost to her stepdaughter’s family now. We may as
well hand over Shirakawa to them too.”

“I am her heir,” Kaede said. “She entrusted everything to me.” He
gave a short mirthless laugh. “They have disputed the domain for
years. The husband is a cousin of Iida’s, and is supported by many
from both the Tohan and the Seishuu. You are mad if you think they
will let you inherit.”

Kaede felt rather than heard Shizuka stir slightly behind her. Her
father was just the first man of many, an army, a whole
clan—maybe even all the Three Countries—who would try to thwart
her. “All the same, I intend to.”

“You’ll have to fight for it,” he said with scorn. “Then I will fight.”
They sat for a few moments in silence in the darkened room with
the rain-drenched garden beyond.

“We have few men left,” her father said, his voice bitter. “Will the
Otori do anything for you? I suppose you must marry again. Have
they suggested anyone?”

“It is too early to think of that,” Kaede said. “I am still in mourn-
ing.“ She took a breath, so deep that she was sure he must hear it.
”I believe I am carrying a child.“

His eyes turned again to her, peering through the gloom. “Shigeru
gave you a child?”

She bowed in confirmation, not daring to speak.

“Well, well,” he said, suddenly inappropriately jovial. “We must
celebrate! A man may have died but his seed lives. A remarkable
achievement!” They had been talking in lowered voices, but now
he shouted surprisingly loudly. “Ayame!”

Kaede jumped despite herself. She saw how his mind was
loosened, swinging between lucidity and darkness. It frightened
her, but she tried to put the fear aside. As long as he believed her
for the time being, she would face whatever came afterward.

The woman Ayame came in and knelt before Kaede. “Lady,
welcome home. Forgive us for such a sad homecoming.”

Kaede stood, took her hands, and raised her to her feet. They
embraced. The solid indomitable figure that Kaede remembered
had dwindled to a woman who was almost old. Yet, she thought
she recalled her scent: It aroused sudden memories of childhood.

“Go and bring wine,” Kaede’s father commanded. “I want to drink
to my grandchild.”

Kaede felt a shiver of dread, as though by giving the child a false
identity she had made its life false. “It is still so early,” she said in a
low voice. “Do not celebrate yet.”

“Kaede!” Ayame exclaimed, using her name as she would to a
child. “Don’t say such things; don’t tempt fate.”

“Fetch wine,” her father said loudly. “And close the shutters. Why
do we sit here in the cold?”

As Ayame went toward the veranda they heard the sound of
footsteps, and Kondo’s voice called, “Lady Otori!”

Shizuka went to the doorway and spoke to him.

“Tell him to come up,” Kaede said.

Kondo stepped onto the wooden floor and knelt in the entrance.
Kaede was conscious of the swift glance he gave round the room,
taking in in a moment the layout of the house, assessing the
people in it. He spoke to her, not to her father.

“I’ve been able to get some food from the village. I’ve chosen the
men you requested. A young man turned up, Amano Tenzo; he’s
taken charge of the horses. I’ll see that the men get something to
eat now, and set guards for the night.”

“Thank you. We’ll speak in the morning.”

Kondo bowed again and left silently.

“Who’s that fellow?” her father demanded. “Why did he not speak
to me to ask my opinion or permission?”

“He works for me,” Kaede replied.

“If he’s one of Arai’s men, I’ll not have him in this house.”

“I said, he works for me.” Her patience was wearing thin. “We are
in alliance with Lord Arai now. He controls most of the Three
Countries. He is our overlord. You must accept this, Father. Iida is
dead and everything has changed.”

“Does that mean daughters may speak to their fathers so?”

“Ayame,” Kaede said, “take my father to his room. He will eat there
tonight.”

Her father began to remonstrate. She raised her voice against him
for the first time in her life. “Father, I am tired. We will talk
tomorrow.”

Ayame gave her a look that she chose to ignore. “Do as I say,” she
said coldly, and after a moment the older woman obeyed and led
her father away.

“You must eat, lady,” Shizuka said. “Sit down; I’ll bring you
something.”

“Make sure everyone is fed,” Kaede said. “And close the shutters
now.”

Later she lay listening to the rain. Her household and her men were
sheltered, fed after a fashion, safe, if Kondo could be trusted. She
let the events of the day run through her mind, the problems she
would have to deal with: her father, Hana, the neglected estate of
Shi-rakawa, the disputed domain of Maruyama. How was she going
to claim and keep what was hers?

If only I were a man, she thought. How easy it would be. If I were
Father’s son, what would he not do for me?

She knew she had the ruthlessness of a man. When she was still a
hostage in Noguchi Castle, she had stabbed a guard without
thinking, but Iida she had killed deliberately. She would kill again,
rather than let any man crush her. Her thoughts drifted to Lady
Maruyama. I wish I had known you better, she thought. I wish I had
been able to learn more from you. I am sorry for the pain I caused
you. If only we had been able to talk freely. She felt she saw the
beautiful face before her, and heard her voice again. I entrust my
land and my people to you. Take care of them.

I will, she promised. I will learn how. The meagerness of her
education depressed her, but that could be remedied. She
resolved she would find out how to run the estate, how to speak to
the farmers, how to train men and fight battles—everything a son
would have been taught from birth. Father will have to teach me,
she thought. It will give him something to think about apart from
himself.

She felt a twinge of emotion, fear or shame or, maybe, a
combination of both. What was she turning into? Was she
unnatural? Had she been bewitched or cursed? She was sure no
woman had ever thought the way she did now. Except Lady
Maruyama. Holding on to the lifeline of her promise to her
kinswoman, she fell asleep at last. The next morning she bade
farewell to Aral’s men, urging them to leave as soon as possible.
They were happy to go, eager to return to the campaigns in the
East before the onset of winter. Kaede was equally keen to get rid
of them, fearing she could not afford to feed them for even one
more night. Next she organized the household women to start
cleaning the house and repairing the damage to the garden.
Shamefaced, Ayame confided in her that there was nothing to pay
workmen with. Most of the Shirakawa treasures and all the money
were gone.

“Then we must do what we can ourselves,” Kaede said, and when
the work was under way she went to the stables with Kondo.

A young man greeted her with a deference that could not hide his
delight. It was Amano Tenzo, who had accompanied her father to
Noguchi Castle, and whom she had known when they were both
children. He was now about twenty years old.

“This is a fine horse,” he said as he brought Raku forward and
saddled him.

“He was a gift from Lord Otori’s son,” she said, stroking the
horse’s neck.

Amano beamed. “Otori horses are renowned for their stamina and
good sense. They say they run them in the water meadows, and
they’re fathered by the river spirit. With your permission, we’ll put
our mares to him and get his foals next year.”

She liked the way he addressed her directly and talked to her of
such things. The stable area was in better condition than most of
the grounds, clean and well maintained—though, apart from Raku,
Amano’s own chestnut stallion, and four horses belonging to
Kondo and his men, there were only three other warhorses, all old
and one lame. Horse skulls were fixed to the eaves, and the wind
moaned through the empty eye sockets. She knew they were
placed there to protect and calm the animals below, but at present
the dead outnumbered the living.

“Yes, we must have more horses,” she said. “How many mares do
we have?”

“Only two or three at the moment.”

“Can we get more before winter?”

He looked glum. “The war, the famine… this year has been
disastrous for Shirakawa.”

“You must show me the worst,” she said. “Ride out with me now.”

Raku’s head was held high and his ears pricked forward. He
seemed to be looking and listening. He whinnied softly at her
approach but continued gazmg into the distance.

“He misses someone—his master, I suppose,” Amano said.
“Don’t let it worry you. He’ll settle in with us and get over it.”

She patted the horse’s pale gray neck. I miss him too, she
whispered silently. Will either of us ever get over it? She felt the
bond between herself and the little horse strengthen.

She rode out every morning, exploring her domain with Kondo and
Amano. After a few days an older man turned up at the door and
was greeted by the maids with tears of joy. It was Shoji Kiyoshi, her
father’s senior retainer, who had been wounded and feared dead.
His knowledge of the estate, the villages, and the farmers was
vast. Kaede swiftly realized he could tell her much of what she
needed to know. At first he humored her, finding it strange and
slightly comical that a girl should have such interests, but her quick
grasp of affairs and her memory surprised him. He began to
discuss problems with her, and though she never lost the feeling
that he disapproved of her, she felt she could trust him.

Her father took little interest in the day-to-day management of
the estate, and Kaede suspected he had been careless, even
unjust, though it seemed disloyal to think it. He occupied the days
with reading and writing in his rooms. She went to him every
afternoon and sat watching him patiently. He spent a lot of time
staring into the garden, saying nothing as Ayame and the maids
worked tirelessly in it, but sometimes mumbling to himself,
complaining about his fate.

She asked him to teach her, pleading, “Treat me as if I were your
son,” but he refused to take her seriously.

“A wife should be obedient and, if possible, beautiful. Men don’t
want women who think like them.”

“They would always have someone to talk to,” she argued. “Men
don’t talk to their wives, they talk to each other,” he retorted.
“Anyway you have no husband. You would spend your time better
marrying again.”

“I will marry no one,” she said. “That’s why I must learn. All the
things a husband would do for me, I must do for myself.”

“Of course you will marry,” he replied shortly. “Something will be
arranged.” But to her relief he made no efforts in that direction.

She continued to sit with him every day, kneeling beside him as he
prepared the inkstone and the brushes, watching every stroke. She
could read and write the flowing script that women used, but her
father wrote in men’s language, the shapes of the characters as
impenetrable and solid as prison bars.

She watched patiently, until one day he handed her the brush and
told her to write the characters for man, woman, and child.

Because she was naturally left-handed she took the brush in that
hand, but, seeing him frown, transferred it to the right. Using her
right hand meant, as always, that she had to put more effort into her
work. She wrote boldly, copying his arm movements. He looked at
the result for a long time.

“You write like a man,” he said finally.

“Pretend that I am one.” She felt his eyes on her and raised her
own to meet his gaze. He was staring at her as if he did not know
her, as if she alarmed and fascinated him at the same time, like
some exotic animal.

“It would be interesting,” he said, “to see if a girl could be taught.
Since I have no son, nor will I ever have one now…”

His voice trailed off and he stared into the distance with unseeing
eyes. It was the only time he alluded even faintly to her mother’s
death.

From then on, Kaede’s father taught her everything that she would
have learned already had she been born male. Ayame
disapproved strongly—so did most of the household and the men,
especially Shoji—but Kaede ignored them. She learned quickly,
though much of what she learned filled her with despair.

“All Father tells me is why men rule the world,” she complained to
Shizuka. “Every text, every law, explains and justifies their
domination.”

“That is the way of the world,” Shizuka replied. It was night and they
lay side by side, whispering. Ai, Hana, and the other women were
asleep in the adjoining room. The night was still, the air cold.

“Not everyone believes that. Maybe there are other countries
where they think differently. Even here there are people who dare
to think in other ways. Lady Maruyama, for instance…” Kaede’s
voice went even quieter. “The Hidden…”

“What do you know about the Hidden?” Shizuka said, laughing
softly.

“You told me about them, a long time ago, when you first came to
me at Noguchi Castle. You said they believed everyone was
created equal by their god. I remember that I thought you, and
they, must have been mad. But now when I learn that even the
Enlightened One speaks badly of women—or at least his priests
and monks do—it makes me question why it should be so.”

“What do you expect?” Shizuka said. “It’s men who write histories
and sacred texts—even poetry. You can’t change the way the world
is. You have to learn how to work within it.”

“There are women writers,” Kaede said. “I remember hearing their
tales at Noguchi Castle. But Father says I should not read them,
that they will corrupt my mind.”

Sometimes she thought her father selected works for her to read
simply because they said such harsh things about women, and
then she thought perhaps there were no other works. She
particularly disliked K’ung Fu-Tzu, whom her father admired
intensely. She was writing the thoughts of the sage to her fathers
dictation one afternoon, when a visitor arrived.

The weather had changed in the night. The air was damp with a
cold edge to it. Wood smoke and mist hung together in the valleys.
In the garden the heavy heads of the last chrysanthemums
drooped with moisture. The women had spent the last weeks
preparing the winter clothes, and Kaede was grateful for the quilted
garments she now wore under her robes. Sitting writing and
reading made her hands and feet cold. Soon she would have to
arrange for braziers: She feared the onset of winter for which they
were still so unprepared.

Ayame came bustling to the door and said in a voice tinged with
alarm, “Lord Fujiwara is here, sir.”

Kaede said, “I will leave you,” placed the brush down, and stood.

“No, stay. It will amuse him to meet you. No doubt he’s come to
hear whatever news you may have brought from the East.”

Her father went to the doorway and stepped out to welcome his
guest. He turned and beckoned to Kaede and then dropped to his
knees.

The courtyard was filled with men on horseback and other
attendants. Lord Fujiwara was descending from a palanquin that
had been set down beside the huge flat rock that had been
transported to the garden expressly for that purpose; Kaede
remembered the day from her childhood. She marveled briefly that
anyone should so travel by choice, and hoped guiltily that the men
had brought their own food with them. Then she dropped to her
knees as one of the attendants loosened the nobleman’s sandals
and he stepped out of them and into the house.

She managed to look at him before she cast her eyes downward.
He was tall and slender, his face white and sculpted like a mask,
the forehead abnormally high. His clothes were subdued in color,
but elegant and made of exquisite fabric. He gave out a seductive
fragrance that suggested boldness and originality. He returned her
father’s bow graciously and responded to his greeting in
courteous, flowery language.

Kaede remained motionless as he stepped past her into the room,
the scent filling her nostrils.

“My eldest daughter,” her father said casually as he followed his
guest inside. “Otori Kaede.”

“Lady Otori,” she heard him say, and then: “I would like to look at
her.”

“Come in, daughter,” her father said impatiently, and she went in on
her knees.

“Lord Fujiwara,” she murmured.

“She is very beautiful,” the nobleman remarked. “Let me see her
face.”

She raised her eyes and met his gaze. “Exquisite.”

In his narrowed appraising eyes she saw admiration but no desire.
It surprised her, and she smiled slightly but unguardedly. He
seemed equally surprised, and the sternly held line of his lips
softened.

“I am disturbing you,” he apologized, his glance taking in the writing
instruments and the scrolls. Curiosity got the better of him. One
eyebrow went up. “A lesson?”

“It’s nothing,” her father replied, embarrassed. “A girl’s
foolishness. You will think me a very indulgent father.”

“On the contrary, I am fascinated.” He picked up the page she had
been writing on. “May I?”

“Please, please,” her father said.

“Quite a fine hand. One would not believe it to be a girl’s.” Kaede
felt herself blush. She was reminded again of her boldness in
daring to learn men’s affairs.

“Do you like K’ung Fu-Tzu?” Lord Fujiwara addressed her directly,
confusing her even more.

“I’m afraid my feelings toward him are mixed,” she replied. “He
seems to care so little for me.”

“Daughter,” her father remonstrated, but Fujiwara’s lips moved
again into something approaching a smile.

“He cannot have anticipated such a close acquaintance,” he
replied lightly. “You have arrived lately from Inuyama, I believe. I
must confess, my visit is partly to find out what news there is.”

“I came nearly a month ago,” she replied. “Not directly from
Inuyama, but from Terayama, where Lord Otori is buried.”

“Your husband? I had not heard. My condolences.” His glance ran
over her form. Nothing escapes him, she thought. He has eyes like
a cormorant.

“Iida brought about his death,” she said quietly, “and was killed in
turn by the Otori.”

Fujiwara went on to express his sympathy further, and she spoke
briefly of Arai and the situation at Inuyama, but beneath his formal
elegant speech she thought she discerned a hunger to know more.
It disturbed her a little, but at the same time she was tempted by it.
She felt she could tell him anything and that nothing would shock
him, and she was flattered by his obvious interest in her.

“This is the Arai who swore allegiance to the Noguchi,” her father
said, returning with anger to his main grudge. “Because of his
treachery I found myself fighting men from the Seishuu clan on my
own land—some of them my own relatives. I was betrayed and
outnumbered.”

“Father!” Kaede tried to silence him. It was none of Lord Fujiwara’s
concern, and the less said about the disgrace, the better.

The nobleman acknowledged the disclosure with a slight bow.
“Lord Shirakawa was wounded, I believe.”

“Too slightly,” he replied. “Better had I been killed. I should take
my own life, but my daughters weaken me.”

Kaede had no desire to hear any more. Luckily they were
interrupted by Ayame bringing tea and small pieces of sweetened
bean paste. Kaede served the men and then excused herself,
leaving them to talk further. Fujiwara’s eyes followed her as she
left, and she found herself hoping she might talk with him again but
without her father present.

She could not suggest such a meeting directly, but from time to
time she tried to think of ways to make it happen. A few days later,
however, her father told her a message had come from the
nobleman inviting Kaede to visit him to view his collection of
paintings and other treasures.

“You have aroused his interest in some way,” he said, a little
surprised.

Pleased though somewhat apprehensive, Kaede told Shizuka to
go to the stables and ask Amano to get Raku ready and to ride with
her to Fujiwara’s residence, which was a little more than an hour’s
journey away.

“You must go in the palanquin,” Shizuka replied firmly.

“Why?”

“Lord Fujiwara is from the court. He is a nobleman. You can’t go
and visit him on a horse, like a warrior.” Shizuka looked stern and
then spoiled the effect by giggling and adding, “Now, if you were a
boy and rode up on Raku, he would probably never let you go! But
you have to impress him as a woman; you must be presented
perfectly.” She looked critically at Kaede. “He’ll think you too tall, no
doubt.”

“He already said I was beautiful,” Kaede replied, stung.

“He needs to find you flawless, like a piece of celadon or a painting
by Sesshu. Then he’ll feel the desire to add you to his collection.”

“I don’t want to be part of his collection,” she exclaimed.

“What do you want?” Shizuka’s voice had turned serious.

Kaede answered in a similar tone. “I want to restore my land and
claim what is mine. I want to have power as men have.”

“Then you need an ally,” Shizuka replied. “If it is to be Lord
Fujiwara, you must be perfect for him. Send a message to say you
had a bad dream and that the day seems inauspicious. Tell him
you will attend on him the day after tomorrow. That should give us
time.”

The message was sent and Kaede submitted herself to Shizuka’s
efforts. Her hair was washed, her eyebrows plucked, her skin
scrubbed with bran, massaged with lotions, and scrubbed again.
Shizuka went through all the garments in the house and selected
some of Kaede’s mother’s robes for her to wear. They were not
new, but the materials were of high-quality and the colors—gray
like a dove’s wing and the purple of bush clover—brought out
Kaede’s ivory skin and the blue-black lights in her hair.

“You are certainly beautiful enough to attract his interest,” Shizuka
said. “But you must also intrigue him. Don’t tell him too much. I
believe he is a man who loves secrets. If you share your secrets
with him, be sure he pays a fair price for them.”

The nights had turned cold with the first frosts, but the days were
clear. The mountains that encircled her home were brilliant with
maple and sumac, as red as flames against the dark green cedars
and the blue sky. Kaede’s senses were heightened by her
pregnancy, and as she stepped from the palanquin in the garden
of the Fujiwara residence, the beauty before her moved her
deeply. It was a perfect moment of autumn, and would so soon
vanish forever, driven away by the storm winds that would come
howling from the mountains.

The house was larger than her own and in much better repair.
Water flowed through the garden, trickling over ancient stones and
through pools where gold and red carp swam lazily. The mountains
seemed to rise directly from the garden, and a distant waterfall
both echoed and mirrored the stream. Two great eagles soared
above in the cloudless sky.

A young man greeted her at the step and led the way across a
wide veranda to the main room where Lord Fujiwara was already
sitting. Kaede stepped inside the doorway and sank to her knees,
touching her forehead to the floor. The matting was fresh and new,
the color still pale green, the scent poignant.

Shizuka remained outside, kneeling on the wooden floor. Within
the room there was silence. Kaede waited for him to speak,
knowing he was studying her, trying to see as much as she could
of the room without moving her eyes or her head. It was a relief
when he finally addressed her and begged her to sit up.

“I am very pleased you could come,” he said, and they exchanged
formalities, she keeping her voice soft and low, he speaking in
such flowery language that sometimes she could only guess at the
meaning of the words. She hoped that, if she said as little as
possible, he would find her enigmatic rather than dull.

The young man returned with tea utensils and Fujiwara himself
made tea, whisking the green powder into a foaming brew. The
bowls were rough, pink-brown in color, pleasing to both eye and
hand. She turned hers, admiring it.

“It’s from Hagi,” he said. “From Lord Otori’s hometown. It is my
favorite of all the tea ware.” After a moment he went on: “Will you
go there?”

Of course, I should, Kaede thought rapidly. If he really were my
husband and I were carrying his child, I would go to his house, to
his family.

“I cannot,” she said simply, raising her eyes. As always the
memory of Shigeru’s death and the role she had played in it and in
the act of revenge brought her almost to tears, darkening her eyes,
making them glow.

“There are always reasons,” he said obliquely. “Take my own
situation. My son, my wife’s grave, are in the capital. You may not
have heard this: I myself was asked to leave. My writings
displeased the regent. After my exile, the city was subjected to two
huge earthquakes and a series of fires. It was generally believed to
be heaven’s displeasure at such unjust treatment of a harmless
scholar. Prayers were offered and I was begged to return, but for
the time being my life here pleases me, and I find reasons not to
obey immediately—though, of course, eventually I must.”

“Lord Shigeru has become a god,” she said. “Hundreds of people
go every day to pray at his shrine, at Terayama.”

“Lord Shigeru, alas for us all, is dead, however, and I am still very
much alive. It is too early for me to become a god.”

He had told her something of himself and now she felt moved to
do the same. “His uncles wanted him dead,” she said. “That is why
I will not go to them.”

“I know little of the Otori clan,” he said, “apart from the beautiful
pottery they produce in Hagi. They have the reputation of skulking
there. It’s quite inaccessible, I believe. And they have some
ancient connection with the imperial family.” His voice was light,
almost bantering, but when he went on it changed slightly. The
same intensity of feeling that she had noticed previously had
entered it again. “Forgive me if I am intruding, but how did Lord
Shigeru die?”

She had spoken so little of the terrible events at Inuyama that she
longed to unburden herself to him now, but as he leaned toward
her she felt his hunger again, not for her, but to know what she had
suffered.

“I cannot speak of it,” she said in a low voice. She would make him
pay for her secrets. “It is too painful.”

“Ah.” Fujiwara looked down at the bowl in his hand. Kaede allowed
herself to study him, the sculpted bones of his face, the sensuous
mouth, the long, delicate fingers. He placed the bowl on the
matting and glanced up at her. She deliberately held his gaze, let
tears form in her eyes, then looked away. “Maybe one day…” she
said softly.

They sat without moving or speaking for several moments. “You
intrigue me,” he said finally. “Very few women do. Let me show you
my humble place, my meager collection.”

She placed the bowl on the floor and stood gracefully. He watched
every movement she made, but with none of the predatory desire
of other men. Kaede realized what Shizuka had meant: If he
admired her, this nobleman would want to add her to his collection.
What price would he pay for her, and what could she demand?

Shizuka bowed to the floor as they stepped past her, and the
young man appeared again from the shadows. He was as fine-
boned and as delicate as a girl.

“Mamoru,” Fujiwara said, “Lady Otori has kindly consented to look
at my pathetic pieces. Come with us.”

As the young man bowed to her, Fujiwara said, “You should learn
from her. Study her. She is a perfect specimen.”

Kaede followed them to the center of the house, where there was
a courtyard and a stage area.

“Mamoru is an actor,” Fujiwara said. “He plays women’s roles. I like
to present dramas in this small space.”

Maybe it was not large, but it was exquisite. Plain wooden pillars
supported the ornately carved roof, and on the backdrop a twisted
pine tree was painted.

“You must come and watch a performance,” Fujiwara said. “We
are about to start rehearsing Atsumori. We are waiting for our flute
player to arrive. But before that we will present The Fulling Block.
Mamoru can learn a lot from you, and I would like your opinion of
his performance.”

When she said nothing he went on, “You are familiar with drama?”

“I saw a few plays when I was at Lord Noguchi’s,” she replied, “but
I know little about it.”

“Your father told me you were a hostage with the Noguchi.”

“From the age of seven.”

“What curious lives women lead,” he remarked, and a chill came
over her.

They went from the theater to another reception room that gave out
onto a smaller garden. Sunlight streamed into it and Kaede was
grateful for its warmth. But the sun was already low over the
mountains. Soon their peaks would hide it, and their jagged
shadows would cover the valley. She could not help shivering.

“Bring a brazier,” Fujiwara ordered. “Lady Otori is cold.”

Mamoru disappeared briefly and came back with a much older man
who carried a small brazier glowing with charcoal.

“Sit near it,” Fujiwara said. “It is easy to take a chill at this time of
year.”

Mamoru left the room again, never speaking, his movements
graceful, deferential, and soundless. When he returned he was
carrying a small paulownia-wood chest, which he set down carefully
on the floor. He left the room and returned three more times, each
time bringing a chest or box. Each was of a different wood,
zelkova, cypress, cherry, polished so that the color and grain
spoke of the long life of the tree, the slope it had grown on, the
seasons of hot and cold, rain and wind, that it had endured.

Fujiwara opened them one by one. Within lay bundles, objects
wrapped in several layers of cloth. The wrapping cloths
themselves were beautiful, although obviously very old—silks of
the finest weave and the most subtle colors—but what lay within
these cloths far surpassed anything Kaede had ever seen. He
unwrapped each one, placed it on the floor in front of her, and
invited her to take it up, caress it with her fingers, touch it to her
lips, or brow, for often the feel and the scent of the object were as
important as its look. He rewrapped and replaced each one before
displaying the next.

“I look at them rarely,” he said, with love in his voice. “Each time an
unworthy gaze falls on them it diminishes them. Just to unwrap
them is an erotic act for me. To share them with another whose
gaze enhances rather than diminishes is one of my greatest, but
rarest, pleasures.“

Kaede said nothing, knowing little of the value or tradition of the
objects before her: the tea bowl of the same pink-brown pottery, at
once fragile and sturdy; the jade figure of the Enlightened One,
seated within the lotus; the gold lacquered box that was both
simple and intricate. She simply gazed, and it seemed to her that
the beautiful things had their own eyes and gazed back at her.

Mamoru did not stay to look at the objects, but after what seemed a
long time—for Kaede time had stopped—he returned with a large,
flat box. Fujiwara took out a painting: a winter landscape with two
crows, black against the snow, in the foreground.

“Ah, Sesshu,” she whispered, speaking for the first time.

“Not Sesshu, in fact, but one of his masters,” he corrected her. “It’s
said that the child cannot teach the parent, but in Sesshu’s case we
must allow that the pupil surpassed the teacher.”

“Is there not a saying that the blue of the dye is deeper than the
blue of the flower?” she replied.

“You approve of that, I expect.”

“If neither child nor pupil were ever wiser, nothing would ever
change.”

“And most people would be very satisfied.‘”

“Only those who have power,” Kaede said. “They want to hold on
to their power and position, while others see that same power and
desire it. It’s within all men to be ambitious, and so they make
change happen. The young overthrow the old.”

“And is it within women to be ambitious?”

“No one bothers to ask them.” Her eyes returned to the painting.
“Two crows, the drake and the duck, the stag and the hind—they
are always painted together, always in pairs.”

“That is the way nature intends it,” Fujiwara said. “It is one of K’ung
Fu-Tzu’s five relationships, after all.”

“And the only one open to women. He only sees us as wives.”

“That is what women are.”

“But surely a woman could be a ruler or a friend?” Her eyes met
his.

“You are very bold for a girl,” he replied, the nearest she had seen
him come to laughing. She flushed and looked again at the
painting.

“Terayama is famous for its Sesshus,” Fujiwara said. “Did you see
them there?”

“Yes. Lord Otori wanted Lord Takeo to see them and copy them.”

“A younger brother?”

“His adopted son.” The last thing Kaede wanted to do was to talk
to Fujiwara about Takeo. She tried to think of something else to
say, but all thoughts deserted her, except for the memory of the
painting Takeo had given her of the little mountain bird.

“I presume he carried out the revenge? He must be very
courageous. I doubt my son would do as much for me.”

“He was always very silent,” she said, longing to talk about him, yet
fearing to. “You would not think him particularly courageous. He
liked drawing and painting. He turned out to be fearless.” She
heard her own voice and stopped abruptly, sure she was
transparent to him.

“Ah,” Fujiwara said, and looked at the painting again for a long time.

“I mustn’t intrude on your affairs,” he said finally, his eyes returning
to her face. “But surely you will be married to Lord Shigeru’s son.”

“There are other considerations,” she said, trying to speak lightly. “I
have land here and at Maruyama that I must lay claim to. If I go and
skulk with the Otori in Hagi, I may lose all that.”

“I feel you have many secrets for someone so young,” he
murmured. “I hope one day to hear them.”

The sun was slipping toward the mountains. The shadows from the
huge cedars began to stretch out toward the house.

“It is growing late,” he said. “I am sorry to lose you but feel I must
send you on your way. You will come again soon.” He wrapped up
the painting and replaced it in its box. She could smell the faint
fragrance of the wood and of the rue leaves placed inside to ward
off insects.

“Thank you from my heart,” she said as they rose. Mamoru had
returned silently to the room and now bowed deeply as she
passed by him.

“Look at her, Mamoru,” Fujiwara said. “Watch how she walks, how
she returns your bow. If you can capture that, you can call yourself
an actor.”

They exchanged farewells, Lord Fujiwara himself coming out onto
the veranda to see her into the palanquin and sending retainers to
accompany her.

“You did well,” Shizuka told her when they were home. “You
intrigued him.”

“He despises me,” Kaede said. She felt exhausted from the
encounter.

“He despises women, but he sees you as something different.”

“Something unnatural.”

“Maybe,” Shizuka said, laughing. “Or something unique and rare
that no one else possesses.”

The following day Fujiwara sent presents for her, with an invitation to
attend a performance of a play at the full moon. Kaede unwrapped
two robes: one old and restrained, beautifully embroidered with
pheasants and autumn grasses in gold and green on ivory-colored
silk; the other new, it seemed, and more flamboyant, with deep
purple and blue peonies on pale pink.

Hana and Ai came to admire them. Lord Fujiwara had also sent
food, quail and sweetfish, persimmons and bean cakes. Hana, like
all of them always on the edge of hunger, was deeply impressed.
“Don’t touch,” Kaede scolded her. “Your hands are dirty.” Hana’s
hands were stained from gathering chestnuts, but she hated
anyone reprimanding her. She pulled them behind her back and
stared angrily at her older sister.

“Hana,” Kaede said, trying to be gentle, “let Ayame wash your
hands, then you may look.”

Kaede’s relationship with her younger sister was still uneasy. Pri-
vately she thought Hana had been spoiled by Ayame and Ai. She
wished she could persuade her father to teach Hana, too, feeling
the girl needed discipline and challenges in her life. She wanted to
instill them herself, but lacked the time and the patience to do so. It
was something else she would have to think about during the long
winter months. Now Hana ran off to the kitchen, crying. “I’ll go to
her,” Ai said.

“She is so self-willed,” Kaede said to Shizuka. “What is to become
of her when she is so beautiful and so stubborn?” Shizuka gave
her a mocking look, but said nothing. “What?” Kaede said. “What
do you mean?”

“She is like you, lady,” Shizuka murmured.

“So you said before. She is luckier than I am, though.” Kaede fell
silent, thinking of the difference between them. When she was
Hana’s age she had been alone in Noguchi Castle for over two
years. Perhaps she was jealous of her sister and it was this that
made her impatient. But Hana really was running wild beyond
control.

She sighed, gazing on the beautiful robes, longing to feel the
softness of the silk against her skin. She told Shizuka to bring a
mirror and held the older robe up to her face to see the colors
against her hair. She was more impressed than she revealed by
the gifts. Lord Fu-jiwara’s interest flattered her. He had said that
she intrigued him; he intrigued her no less.

She wore the older robe, for it seemed more suitable for late
autumn, when she and her father, Shizuka, and Ai went to visit Lord
Fujiwara for the performance. They were to stay overnight, since
the drama would go on until late, under the full moon. Hana,
desperate to be invited, too, sulked when they left and would not
come out to say good-bye. Kaede wished she could have left her
father behind too.

His unpredictable behavior worried her, and she was afraid he
might shame himself further in company. But he, immensely
flattered by the invitation, would not be dissuaded.

Several actors, Mamoru among them, presented The Fulling Block.
The play disturbed Kaede deeply. During her brief visit, Mamoru
had studied her more than she had realized. Now she saw herself
portrayed before her eyes, saw her movements, heard her own
voice sigh, The autumn wind tells of love grown cold, as the wife
went slowly mad, waiting for her husband’s return.

Brilliance of the moon, touch of the wind. The words of the chorus
pierced her like a needle in her flesh. Frost gleaming in pale light,
chill the heart as the block beats and night winds moan.

Her eyes filled with tears. All the loneliness and the longing of the
woman on the stage, a woman modeled on her, seemed indeed to
be hers. She had even that week helped Ayame beat their silken
robes with the fulling block to soften and restore them. Her father
had commented on it, saying the repetitive beat of the block was
one of the most evocative sounds of autumn. The drama stripped
her of her defenses. She longed for Takeo completely, achingly. If
she could not have him she would die. Yet, even while her heart
cracked, she remembered that she must live for the child’s sake.
And it seemed she felt the first tiny flutter of its watery movement
within her.

Above the stage the brilliant moon of the tenth month shone coldly
down. Smoke from the charcoal braziers drifted skyward. The soft
beat of the drums fell into the silence. The small group watching
were rapt, possessed by the beauty of the moon and the power of
emotion displayed before them.

Afterward Shizuka and Ai returned to their room, but, to Kaede’s
surprise, Lord Fujiwara asked her to remain in the company of the
men as they drank wine and ate a series of exotic dishes,
mushrooms, land crabs, pickled chestnuts, and tiny squid
transported in ice and straw from the coast. The actors joined
them, their masks laid aside. Lord Fujiwara praised them and gave
them gifts. Later, when the wine had loosened tongues and raised
the level of noise, he addressed Kaede quietly.

“I am glad your father came with you. I believe he has not been
well?”

“You are very kind to him,” she replied. “Your understanding and
consideration mean a great deal to us.” She did not think it was
seemly to discuss her father’s state of mind with the nobleman, but
Fujiwara persisted.

“Does he fall into gloomy states often?”

“He is a little unstable from time to time. My mother’s death, the
war…” Kaede looked at her father, who was talking excitedly with
one of the older actors. His eyes glittered, and he did indeed look
a little mad.

“I hope you will turn to me if you need help at any time.” She
bowed silently, aware of the great honor he was paying her and
confused by his attention. She had never sat like this in a room full
of men, and felt that she should not be there, yet was unsure of
how to leave. He changed the subject deftly.

“What was your opinion of Mamoru? He learned well from you, I
think.”

She did not answer for a moment, turning her gaze from her father
to the young man, who had divested himself of his female role yet
still retained the vestiges of it, of her.

“What can I say?” she said finally. “He seemed brilliant to me.”

“But… ?” he questioned.

“You steal everything from us.” She had meant to say it lightly, but
her voice sounded bitter to her own ears.

“‘You’?” he repeated, slightly surprised.

“Men. You take everything from women. Even our pain—the very
pain that you cause us—you steal it and portray it as your own.”

His opaque eyes searched her face. “I have never seen a more
convincing or moving portrayal than Mamoru’s.”

“Why are women’s roles not played by women?”

“What a curious idea,” he replied. “You think you would have more
authenticity because you imagine these emotions are familiar to
you. But it is the actor’s artifice in creating emotions that he cannot
know intimately that displays his genius.”

“You leave us nothing,” Kaede said.

“We give you our children. Isn’t that a fair exchange?”

Again she felt his eyes could see right through her. I dislike him,
she thought, even though he is intriguing. I will have nothing more
to do with him, no matter what Shizuka says.

“I have offended you,” he said, as though he could read her
thoughts.

“I am too insignificant for Lord Fujiwara to concern himself with,”
she replied. “My feelings are of no importance.”

“I take great interest in your feelings: They are always so original
and unexpected.”

Kaede made no response. After a second he went on, “You must
come and see our next play. It is to be Atsumori. We await only our
flute player. He is a friend of Mamoru’s, expected any day now.
You are familiar with the story?”

“Yes,” she said, her mind turning to the tragedy. She was still
thinking about it later when she lay in the guest room with Ai and
Shizuka: the youth so beautiful and gifted at music, the rough
warrior who slays him and takes his head and then in remorse
becomes a monk, seeking the peace of the Enlightened One. She
thought about Atsumori’s wraith, calling from the shadows: Pray for
me. Let my spirit be released.

The unfamiliar excitement, the emotions aroused by the play, the
lateness of the hour, all made her restless. Thinking about
Atsumori, the flute player, she drifted between sleeping and
waking, and seemed to hear the notes of a flute come from the
garden. It reminded her of something. She was descending toward
sleep, soothed by the music, when she remembered.

She woke instantly. It was the same music she had heard at Ter-
ayama. The young monk who had shown them the
paintings—surely he had played the same notes, so laden with
anguish and longing?

She pushed back the quilt and got up quietly, slid aside the paper
screen, and listened. She heard a quiet knock, the scrape of the
wooden door opening, Mamoru’s voice, the voice of the flute
player. At the end of the passage a lamp in a servant’s hand briefly
lit their faces. She was not dreaming. It was him.

Shizuka whispered from behind her. “Is everything all right?”
Kaede closed the screen and went to kneel beside her. “It is one
of the monks from Terayama.”

“Here?”

“He is the flute player they have been waiting for.”

“Makoto,” Shizuka said.

“I never knew his name. Will he remember me?”

“How can he forget?” Shizuka replied. “We will leave early. You
must plead illness. He must not see you unexpectedly. Try and
sleep for a while. I will wake you at daybreak.”

Kaede lay down, but sleep was slow to come. Finally she dozed a
little and woke to see daylight behind the shutters and Shizuka
kneeling beside her.

She wondered if it was possible to steal away. The household was
already stirring. She could hear the shutters being opened. Her
father always woke early. She could not leave without at least
informing him.

“Go to my father and tell him I am unwell and must go home. Ask
him to make my apologies to Lord Fujiwara.”

Shizuka came back after several minutes. “Lord Shirakawa is most
reluctant for you to leave. He wants to know if you are well enough
to go to him.”

“Where is he?”

“He is in the room overlooking the garden. I have asked for tea to
be brought to you. You look very pale.”

“Help me dress,” Kaede said. Indeed she felt faint and unwell. The
tea revived her a little. Ai was awake now, lying under the quilt, her
sweet-natured face pink cheeked and dark eyed from sleep, like a
doll’s.

“Kaede, what is it? What’s the matter?”

“I am ill. I need to go home.”

“I’ll come with you.” Ai pushed back the quilt.

“It would be better if you stayed with father,” Kaede told her, “and
apologize to Lord Fujiwara on my behalf.”

She knelt on an impulse and stroked her sister’s hair. “Stand in for
me,” she begged.

“I don’t think Lord Fujiwara has even noticed my existence,” Ai
said. “It is you who have entranced him.”

The caged birds in the garden were calling noisily. He will find out
my deception and never want to see me again, Kaede thought, but
it was not the nobleman’s reaction that she feared: It was her
father’s.

“The servants told me Lord Fujiwara sleeps late,” Shizuka
whispered. “Go and speak to your father. I have asked for the
palanquin.”

Kaede nodded, saying nothing. She stepped onto the polished
wood of the veranda. How beautifully the boards were laid. As she
walked toward the room where her father was, scenes from the
garden unfolded before her eyes; a stone lantern, framed by the
last red leaves of the maple, the sun glittering on the still water of a
pool, the flash of yellow and black from the long-tailed birds on
their perches.

Her father sat looking out onto the garden. She could not help
feeling pity for him. Lord Fujiwara’s friendship meant so much to
him.

In the pool a heron waited, as still as a statue.

She dropped to her knees and waited for her father to speak.

“What’s this nonsense, Kaede? Your rudeness is beyond belief!”

“Forgive me, I am not well,” she murmured. When he did not reply
she raised her voice a little. “Father, I am unwell. I am going home
now.”

He still said nothing, as if ignoring her would make her go away.
The heron rose with a sudden beat of wings. Two young men
walked into the garden to look at the caged birds.

Kaede looked around the room, seeking a screen or something
that she might hide behind but there was nothing.

“Good morning!” her father called cheerfully.

The men turned to acknowledge him. Mamoru saw her. There was
a moment when she thought he would leave the garden without
approaching her, but Lord Fujiwara’s treatment of her the previous
night when he included her in the men’s party must have
emboldened him. He led the other man forward and began the
formal introductions to her father. She bowed deeply, hoping to
hide her face. Mamoru gave the monk’s name, Kubo Makoto, and
the name of the temple at Terayama. Makoto bowed too.

“Lord Shirakawa,” Mamoru said, “and his daughter, Lady Otori.”

The young monk could not prevent his reaction. He turned pale and
his eyes went to her face. He recognized her and spoke in the
same moment.

“Lady Otori? You married Lord Takeo after all? Is he here with
you?”

There was a moment of silence. Then Kaede’s father spoke. “My
daughter’s husband was Lord Otori Shigeru.”

Makoto opened his mouth as if he would deny it, thought better of
it, and bowed without speaking.

Kaede’s father leaned forward. “You are from Terayama? You did
not know that the marriage took place there?”

Makoto said nothing. Her father spoke to her without turning his
head. “Leave us alone.”

She was proud of how steady her voice was when she spoke. “I
am going home. Please make my apologies to Lord Fujiwara.”

He made no response to her. He will kill me, she thought. She
bowed to the two young men and saw their embarrassment and
their discomfort. As she walked away, forcing herself not to hurry,
not to move her head, a wave of emotion began to uncurl in her
belly. She saw she would always be the object of those
embarrassed looks, that scorn. She gasped at the intensity of the
feeling, the sharpness of the despair that came with it. Better to
die, she thought. But what about my child, Takeo’s child? Must it
die with me?

At the end of the veranda Shizuka was waiting for her. “We can
leave now, lady. Kondo will come with us.”

Kaede allowed the man to lift her into the palanquin. She was
relieved to be inside, in the semidarkness where no one could see
her face. Father will never look at my face again, she thought. He
will turn his eyes away even when he kills me.

When she reached her house, she took off the robe that Fujiwara
had given her and folded it carefully. She put on one of her
mother’s
old robes, with a quilted garment underneath. She was cold to the
bone and she did not want to tremble.

“You are back!” Hana came running into the room. “Where is Ai?”

“She stayed at Lord Fujiwara’s a little longer.”

“Why did you come back?” the child asked. “I didn’t feel well. I’m
all right now.” On an impulse Kaede said, “I’m going to give you the
robe, the autumn one you liked so much. You must put it away and
look after it until you are old enough to wear it.”

“Don’t you want it?”

“I want you to have it, and to think of me when you wear it, and pray
for me.”

Hana stared at her, her eyes sharp. “Where are you going?” When
Kaede did not reply she went on, “Don’t go away again, Older
Sister.”

“You won’t mind,” Kaede said, trying to tease her. “You won’t miss
me.”

To her dismay, Hana began to sob noisily and then to scream. “I
will miss you! Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!”

Ayame came running. “Now what is it, Hana? You must not be
naughty with your sister.”

Shizuka came into the room. “Your father is at the ford,” she said.
“He has come alone, on horseback.”

“Ayame,” Kaede said, “take Hana out for a while. Take her to the
forest. All the servants must go with you. I want no one in the
house.”

“But, Lady Kaede, it’s so early and still so cold.”

“Please do as I say,” Kaede begged. Hana cried more wildly as
Ayame led her away.

“It is grief that makes her so wild,” Shizuka said.

“I am afraid I must inflict still more on her,” Kaede exclaimed. “But
she must not be here.”

She stood and went to the small chest where she kept a few
things. She took the knife from it, felt its weight in her forbidden left
hand. Soon it would no longer matter to anyone which hand she
had used. “Which is best, in the throat or in the heart?”

“You don’t have to do it,” Shizuka said quietly. “We can flee. The
Tribe will hide you. Think of the child.”

“I can’t run away!” Kaede was surprised at the loudness of her own
voice.

“Then let me give you poison. It will be swift and painless. You will
simply fall asleep and never—”

Kaede cut her short. “I am a warrior’s daughter. I’m not afraid of
dying. You know better than anyone how often I have thought of
taking my own life. First I must ask Father’s forgiveness, then I
must use the knife on myself. My only question is, which is better?”

Shizuka came close to her. “Place the point here, at the side of
your neck. Thrust it sideways and upward. That will slash the
artery.” Her voice, matter-of-fact to start with, faltered, and Kaede
saw there were tears in her eyes. “Don’t do it,” Shizuka whispered.
“Don’t despair yet.”

Kaede transferred the knife to her right hand. She heard the shouts
of the guard, the horse’s hoofbeats as her father rode through the
gate. She heard Kondo greet him.

She gazed out onto the garden. A sudden flash of memory came
to her of herself as a little child running the length of the veranda
from her father to her mother and back again. I’ve never
remembered that before, she thought, and whispered soundlessly,
Mother, Mother!

Her father stepped onto the veranda. As he came through the
doorway both she and Shizuka dropped to their knees, foreheads
to the ground.

“Daughter,” he said, his voice uncertain and thin. She looked up
at him and saw his face streaked with tears, his mouth working.
She had been afraid of his anger, but now she saw his madness
and it frightened her more.

“Forgive me,” she whispered.

“I must kill myself now.” He sat heavily in front of her, taking his
dagger from his belt. He looked at the blade for a long time.

“Send for Shoji,” he said finally. “He must assist me. Tell your man
to ride to his house and fetch him.”

When she made no response, he shouted suddenly, “Tell him!”

“I’ll go,” Shizuka whispered. She crawled on her knees to the edge
of the veranda; Kaede heard her speak to Kondo, but the man did
not leave. Instead he stepped up onto the veranda and she knew
he was waiting just outside the doorway.

Her father made a sudden gesture toward her. She could not help
flinching, thinking he was about to hit her. He said, “There was no
marriage!”

“Forgive me,” she said again. “I have shamed you. I am ready to
die.”

“But there is a child?” He was staring at her as though she were a
viper that would strike at any moment.

“Yes, there is a child.”

“Who is the father? Or don’t you know? Was he one of many?”

“It makes no difference now,” she replied. “The child will die with
me.”

She thought, Thrust the knife sideways and upward. But she felt
the child’s tiny hands grip her muscles, preventing her.

“Yes, yes, you must take your own life.” His voice rose, taking on a
shrill energy. “Your sisters must also kill themselves. This is my
last command to you. Thus the Shirakawa family will disappear, not
before time. And I will not wait for Shoji. I must do it myself. It will
be my final act of honor.”

He loosened his sash and opened his robe, pushing aside his
undergarment to expose his flesh. “Don’t turn away,” he said to
Kaede. “You must watch. It is you who have driven me to this.” He
placed the point of the blade against the loose, wrinkled skin and
drew a deep breath.

She could not believe it was happening. She saw his knuckles
tighten around the handle, saw his face contort. He gave a harsh
cry and the dagger fell from his hands. But there was no blood, no
wound. Several more sharp cries issued from him, then gave way
to racking sobs.

“I cannot do it,” he wailed. “My courage has all gone. You have
sapped me, unnatural woman that you are. You have taken my
honor and my manhood. You are not my daughter: You are a
demon! You bring death to all men; you are cursed.” He reached
out and grabbed her, pulling at her garments. “Let me see you,” he
cried. “Let me see what other men desire! Bring death to me as
you have to others.”

“No,” she screamed, fighting against his hands, trying to push him
away. “Father, no!”

“You call me Father? I am not your father. My real children are the
sons I never had; the sons you and your cursed sisters took the
place of. Your demonic powers must have killed them in your
mother’s womb!” His madness gave him strength. She felt the
robes pulled from her shoulders, his hands on her skin. She could
not use the knife; she could not escape him. As she struggled
against his grip, the robe slipped to her waist, exposing her. Her
hair came loose and fell around her bare shoulders.

“You are beautiful,” he shouted. “I admit it. I have desired you.
While I taught you I lusted after you. It was my punishment for
going against nature. I am completely corrupted by you. Now bring
me death!”

“Let me go, Father,” she cried, trying to stay calm, hoping to rea-
son with him. “You are not yourself. If we must die let us do it with
dignity.” But all words seemed weak and meaningless in the face
of his delusions.

His eyes were wet, his lips quivering. He seized her knife and threw
it across the room, held both her wrists in his left hand, and pulled
her toward him. With his right hand he reached under her hair, drew
it aside, bent over her, and put his lips on the nape of her neck.

Horror and revulsion swept over her, followed by fury. She had
been prepared to die, in accordance with the harsh code of her
class, to salvage her family’s honor. But her father, who had
instructed her so rigidly in that code, who had taught her
assiduously about the superiority of his sex, had surrendered to
madness, revealing what lay beneath the strict rules of conduct of
the warrior class: the lust and selfishness of men. The fury brought
to life the power that she knew lay within her, and she remembered
how she had slept in ice. She called to the White Goddess: Help
me!

She heard her own voice—“Help me! Help me!”—and even as she
cried out her father’s grip slackened. He has come to his senses,
she thought, pushing him away. She scrambled to her feet, pulling
her robe around her and retying the sash, and, almost without
thinking, stumbled to the farthest side of the room. She was
sobbing with shock and rage.

She turned and saw Kondo kneeling in front of her father, who sat
half-upright, supported, she thought at first, by Shizuka.Then she
realized that her fathers eyes saw nothing. Kondo plunged his
hand, it seemed, into her father’s belly and slashed crossways.
The cut made a foul soft noise, and the blood hissed and bubbled
as it foamed out.

Shizuka let go of the man’s neck, and he fell forward. Kondo
placed the knife in his right hand.

The vomit rose in her throat then and she doubled up, retching.
Shizuka came to her, her face expressionless. “It’s all over.”

“Lord Shirakawa lost his mind,” Kondo said, “and took his own life.
He has had many episodes of madness and often spoke of so
doing. He died honorably and with great courage.” He stood and
looked directly at her. There was a moment when she could have
called for the guards, denounced both of them, and had them
executed, but the moment passed and she did nothing. She knew
she would never reveal the murder to anyone.

Kondo smiled very slightly and continued, “Lady Otori, you must
demand allegiance from the men. You must be strong. Otherwise
any one of them will seize your domain and usurp you.”

“I was about to kill myself,” she said slowly. “But it seems there is
no need now.”

“No need,” he agreed, “as long as you are strong.”

“You must live for the child’s sake,” Shizuka urged her. “No one will
care who the father is, if only you are powerful enough. But you
must act now. Kondo, summon the men as quickly as possible.”

Kaede let Shizuka lead her to the women’s rooms, wash her, and
change her clothes. Her mind was quivering with shock, but she
clung to the knowledge of her own power. Her father was dead and
she was alive. He had wanted to die; it was no hardship for her to
pretend that he had indeed taken his own life and had died with
honor, a desire he had often expressed. Indeed, she thought
bitterly, she was respecting his wishes and protecting his name.
She would not, however, obey his last command to her: She would
not kill herself and she would not allow her sisters to die either.

Kondo had summoned the guards, and boys were sent to the
village to fetch the men who lived on farms. Within the hour, most
of her father’s retainers were assembled. The women had brought
out the mourning clothes so recently put away after her mother’s
death, and the priest had been sent for. The sun came up higher,
melting the frost. The air smelled of smoke and pine needles. Now
that the first shock was over Kaede was driven by a feeling she
hardly understood, a fierce need to secure what was hers, to
protect her sisters and her household, to ensure nothing of hers
was lost or stolen. Any one of the men could take her estate from
her; they would not hesitate if she showed the slightest sign of
weakness. She had seen the utter ruth-lessness that lay beneath
Shizuka’s lighthearted pose and Kondo’s ironic exterior. That
ruthlessness had saved her life, and she would match it with her
own.

She recalled the decisiveness that she had seen in Arai, that made
men follow him, that had brought most of the Three Countries
under his sway. She must now show the same resolution. Arai
would respect their alliance, but if anyone else took her place,
would he hold back from war? She would not let her people be
devastated; she would not let her sisters be taken away as
hostages.

Death still beckoned her, but this new fierce spirit within her would
not allow her to respond. lam indeed possessed, she thought as
she stepped onto the veranda to speak to the men assembled in
the garden. How few they are, she thought, remembering the
numbers her father used to command when she was a child. Ten
were Arai’s men, whom Kondo had selected and there were twenty
or so who still served the Shirakawa. She knew them all by name,
had made it her business since she returned to get to know their
position and something of their character.

Shoji had been one of the first to arrive and had prostrated himself
before her father’s body. His face still bore the traces of tears. He
stood at her right hand, Kondo on her left. She was aware of
Kondo’s deference to the older man and aware that it was a
pretense, like most of what he did. But he killed my father for me,
she thought. He is hound to me now. But what price will he exact in
return?

The men knelt before her, heads lowered, then sat back on their
heels as she spoke.

“Lord Shirakawa has taken his own life,” she said. “It was his
choice, and whatever my grief, I must respect and honor his deed.
My father intended me to be his heir. It was for that purpose that he
began instructing me as if I were his son. I mean to carry out his
wishes.” She paused for a moment, hearing his final words to her,
so different: I am completely corrupted by you. Now bring me
death! But she did not flinch. To the watching men she seemed to
radiate some deep power. It illuminated her eyes and made her
voice irresistible. “I ask my father’s men to swear allegiance to me
as you did to him. Since Lord Arai and I are in alliance, I expect
those of you who serve him to continue to serve me. In return I
offer you both protection and advancement. I plan to consolidate
Shirakawa and next year take up the lands willed to me at
Maruyama. My father will be buried tomorrow.” Shoji was the first to
kneel before her. Kondo followed, though again his demeanor
unnerved her. He is playacting, she thought. Allegiance means
nothing to him. He is from the Tribe. What schemes do they have
for me that I know nothing about? Can I trust them? If I find I
cannot trust Shizuka, what will 1 do?

Her heart quailed within her, though none of the men filing before
her would have guessed. She received their allegiance, noting
each one, picking out their characteristics, their clothes, armor and
weapons. They were mostly ill-equipped, the laces of the armor
broken and frayed, the helmets dented and cracked, but they all
had bows and swords, and she knew most of them had horses.

All knelt to her save two. One, a giant of a man, Hirogawa, called

out in a loud voice, “All respect to your ladyship, but I’ve never
served a woman and I’m too old to start now.” He made a
perfunctory bow and walked to the gate with a swagger that
infuriated her. A smaller man, Nakao, followed him without a word,
without even bowing.

Kondo looked at her. “Lady Otori?”

“Kill them,” she said, knowing she had to be ruthless and knowing
she had to start now.

He moved faster than she would have thought possible, cutting
down Nakao before the man realized what was happening.
Hirogawa turned in the gateway and drew his sword.

“You have broken your allegiance and must die,” Kondo shouted at
him.

The large man laughed. “You are not even from Shirakawa. Who’s
going to take any notice of you?” He held his sword in both hands,
ready to strike. Kondo took a quick step forward; as Hirogawa’s
blow fell Kondo parried it with his own sword, thrusting the other
man’s blade aside with unexpected strength, wielding his own
weapon like an ax. In the return motion he whipped it back into
Hirogawa’s unprotected belly. Now more like a razor than an ax, the
sword slid through the flesh. As Hirogawa faltered forward Kondo
stepped out to the right and behind him. Spinning round he struck
downward, opening the man’s back from shoulder to hip.

Kondo did not look at the dying men but turned to face the others.
He said, “I serve Lady Otori Kaede, heir to Shirakawa and
Maruyama. Is there anyone else here who will not serve her as
faithfully as I?”

No one moved. Kaede thought she saw anger in Shoji’s face, but
he simply pressed his lips together, saying nothing.

In recognition of their past service to her father, she allowed the
families of the dead men to collect the bodies and bury them, but
because the men had disobeyed her she told Kondo to turn their
dependents out of their homes and take their land for herself.

“It was the only thing to do,” Shizuka told her. “If you had allowed
them to live, they would have caused unrest here or joined your
enemies.”

“Who are my enemies?” Kaede said. It was late in the evening.
They sat in Kaede’s favorite room. The shutters were closed but
the braziers hardly warmed the chill night air. She pulled the quilted
robes more closely around her. From the main room came the
chanting of priests keeping vigil with the dead man.

“Lady Maruyama’s stepdaughter is married to a cousin of Lord Iida,
Nariaki. They will be your main rivals in claiming the domain.”

“But most of the Seishuu hate the Tohan,” Kaede replied. “I
believe I will be welcomed by them. I am the rightful heir, after all,
the closest blood relative to Lady Maruyama.”

“No one’s questioning your legal right,” Shizuka replied, “but you
will have to fight to obtain your inheritance. Would you not be
content with your own domain here at Shirakawa?”

“The men I have are so few, and pitifully equipped,” Kaede said
thoughtfully. “Just to hold Shirakawa, I will need a small army. I
cannot afford one with the resources we have here. I will need the
wealth of Maruyama. When the mourning period is over, you must
send someone to Lady Naomi’s chief retainer, Sugita Haruki. You
know who he is; we met him on our journey to Tsuwano. Let us
hope he is still in charge of the domain.”

“I must send someone?”

“You or Kondo. One of your spies.”

“You want to employ the Tribe?” Shizuka said in surprise. “I already
employ you,” Kaede replied. “Now I want to make use
of your skills.“ She wanted to question Shizuka closely about many
things, but she was exhausted, with an oppressive feeling in her
belly and womb. In the next day or so I will talk to her, she
promised herself, but now I must lie down.

Her back ached; when she was finally in bed she could not get
comfortable, and sleep would not come. She had gone through the
whole terrible day and she was still alive, but now that the house
was quiet, the weeping and chanting stilled, a deep sense of dread
came over her. Her father’s words rang in her ears. His face and
the faces of the dead men loomed before her eyes. She feared
their ghosts would try to snatch Takeo’s child from her. Finally she
slept, her arms wrapped around her belly.

She dreamed her father was attacking her. He drew the dagger
from his belt but instead of plunging it into his own belly he came
close to her, put his hand on the back of her neck, and drove the
dagger deep into her. An agonizing pain swept through her, making
her wake with a cry. The pain surged again rhythmically. Her legs
were already awash with blood.

Her father’s funeral took place without her. The child slipped from
her womb like an eel, and her life’s blood followed. Then fever
came, turning her vision red, setting her tongue babbling,
tormenting her with hideous visions.

Shizuka and Ayame brewed all the herbs known to them, then in
despair burned incense and struck gongs to banish the evil spirits
that possessed her, and called for priests and a spirit girl to drive
them away.

After three days it seemed nothing would save her. Ai never left
her side. Even Hana was beyond tears. Around the hour of the
Goat, Shizuka stepped outside to fetch fresh water, when one of
the men at the guardhouse called to her.

“Visitors are coming. Men on horses and two palanquins. Lord
Fujiwara, I think.”

“He must not come in,” she said. “There is pollution by blood as
well as by death.”

The bearers set the palanquins down outside the gate, and she
dropped to her knees as Fujiwara looked out.

“Lord Fujiwara, forgive me. It is impossible for you to come in.”

“I was told Lady Otori is gravely ill,” he replied. “Let me talk to you
in the garden.”

She remained kneeling as he walked past her, then rose and
followed him to the pavilion by the stream. He waved his servants
away and turned to Shizuka. “How serious is it?”

“I do not think she will live beyond tonight,” Shizuka replied in a low
voice. “We have tried everything.”

“I have brought my physician,” Fujiwara said. “Show him where to
go and then come back to me.”

She bowed to him and went back to the gate where the physician,
a small, middle-aged man with a kind, intelligent look about him,
was emerging from the second palanquin. She took him to the
room where Kaede lay, her heart sinking at the sight of her pale
skin and unfocused eyes. Kaede’s breathing was rapid and
shallow, and every now and then she gave a sharp cry—whether of
fear or pain, it was impossible to tell.

When she came back Lord Fujiwara was standing gazing toward
the end of the garden, where the stream fell away over rocks. The
air was beginning to chill, and the sound of the waterfall was bleak
and lonely. Shizuka knelt again and waited for him to speak. “Ishida
is very skilled,” he said. “Don’t give up hope yet.”

“Lord Fujiwara’s kindness is extreme,” she murmured. She could
only think of Kaede’s pale face and wild eyes. She longed to return
to her, but she could not leave without the nobleman’s permission.

“I am not a kind man,” he replied. “I am motivated mainly by my
own desires, by selfishness. It is my nature to be cruel.” He
glanced briefly at her and said, “How long have you served Lady
Shirakawa? You are not from this part of the country?”

“I was sent to her in the spring while she was still at Noguchi
Castle.”

“Sent by whom?”

“By Lord Arai.”

“Indeed? And do you report back to him?”

“What can Lord Fujiwara mean?” Shizuka said.

“There is something about you that is unusual in a servant. I
wondered if you might be a spy.”

“Lord Fujiwara has too high an opinion of my abilities,” Shizuka
replied.

“I hope you never have cause to incite my cruelty.”

She heard the threat behind his words and said nothing.

He went on as if talking to himself. “Her person, her life, touch me
in a way I have never felt before. I thought myself long past
experiencing any new emotion. I will not let anyone or
anything—even death—take her from me.”

“Everyone who sees her is bewitched by her,” Shizuka whispered,
“but fate has been unusually harsh to her.”

“I wish I knew her true life,” he said. “I know she has many secrets.
The recent tragedy of her father's death is another, I suppose. I
hope you will tell me one day, if she cannot.” His voice broke. “The
idea that such beauty might perish pierces my soul,” he said.
Shizuka thought she heard artificiality in his voice, but his eyes
were filled with tears. “If she lives I will marry her,” he said. “That
way I will have her with me always. You may go now. But will you
tell her that?”

“Lord Fujiwara.” Shizuka touched her forehead to the ground and
crept away backward.

If she lives…

Matsue was a northern town, cold and austere. We arrived in the
middle of autumn, when the wind from the mainland howled across
a sea as dark as iron. Once the snows began, like Hagi, Matsue
would be cut off from the rest of the country for three months. It
was as good a place as any to learn what I had to learn.

For a week we had walked all day, following the coastal road. It did
not rain, but the sky was often overcast and each day was shorter
and colder than the last. We stopped at many villages and showed
the children juggling, spinning tops, and games with string thatYuki
and Keiko knew. At night we always found shelter with merchants
who were part of the Tribe network. I lay awake till late listening to
whispered conversations, my nostrils filled with the smells of the
brewery or of soybean foodstuff. I dreamed of Kaede, and longed
for her, and sometimes when I was alone I would take out
Shigeru’s letter and read his last words, in which he had charged
me to avenge his death and to take care of Lady Shirakawa.
Consciously I had made the decision to go to the Tribe, but, even
in those early days, just before sleep, unbidden images came to
me of his uncles, unpunished in Hagi, and of his sword, Jato,
sleeping at Terayama.

By the time we arrived at Matsue, Yuki and I were lovers. It
happened with inevitability, yet not through my will. I was always
aware of her on the road, my senses tuned to her voice, her scent.
But I was too unsure of my future, my position in the group, too
guarded and wary to make any move toward her. It was obvious
that Akio also found her attractive. He was at ease with her as with
no one else, seeking out her company, walking beside her on the
road, sitting next to her at meals. I did not want to antagonize him
further.

Yuki’s position in the group was unclear. She deferred to Akio and
always treated him with respect; yet, she seemed equal to him in
status and, as I had reason to know, her skills were greater. Keiko
was obviously lower down in the order, perhaps from a lesser
family or a collateral branch. She continued to ignore me, but
showed blind loyalty to Akio. As for the older man, Kazuo,
everyone treated him as a mixture between a servant and an uncle.
He had many practical skills, including thievery.

Akio was Kikuta through both father and mother. He was a second
cousin to me and had the same hands shaped like mine. His
physical skills were astounding—he had the fastest reflexes of
anyone I’ve ever met, and could leap so high he seemed to be
flying—but apart from his ability to perceive the use of invisibility
and the second self, and his dexterity in juggling, none of the more
unusual Kikuta gifts had come to him. Yuki told me this one day
when we were walking some way ahead of the others.

“The masters fear the gifts are dying out. Every generation seems
to have fewer.” She gave me a sideways look and added, “That’s
why it’s so important to us to keep you.”

Her mother had said the same thing and I would have liked to have
heard more, but Akio shouted at me that it was my turn to push the
cart. I saw the jealousy in his face as I walked toward him. I
understood it and his hostility to me all too well. He was fanatically
loyal to the Tribe, having been raised in their teachings and way of
life; I could not help but realize that my sudden appearance was
likely to usurp many of his ambitions and hopes. But understanding
his antipathy did not make it any easier to bear, nor did it make me
like him. I said nothing as I took the handles of the cart from him.
He ran forward to walk beside Yuki, whispering to her, forgetting,
as he often did, that I could hear every word. He’d taken to calling
me the Dog, and the nickname had enough truth in it to stick. As
I’ve said before, I have an affinity with dogs: I can hear the things
they hear, and I’ve known what it’s like to be speechless.

“What were you saying to the Dog?” he asked her. “Teaching,
teaching,” she replied offhandedly. “There’s so much he needs to
learn.”

But what she turned out to be best at teaching was the art of love.

Both Yuki and Keiko took on the role of prostitutes on the road if
they needed to. So did many of the Tribe, men and women, no one
thinking any the worse of them for it. It was simply another role to
assume, then discard. Of course, the clans had quite different
ideas about the virginity of their brides and the fidelity of their
wives. Men could do what they liked; women were expected to be
chaste. The teachings I had grown up with were somewhere
between the two: The
Hidden are supposed to be pure in matters of physical desire, but
in practice are forgiving of one another’s lapses, as they are in all
things.

On our fourth night we stayed in a large village with a wealthy
family. Despite the scarcity in the whole area following the storms,
they had stockpiles of supplies and they were generous hosts. The
merchant offered us women, maids from his household, and Akio
and Kazuo accepted. I made an excuse of some sort, which
brought a storm of teasing, but the matter was not forced. Later,
when the girls came to the room and lay down with the other men, I
moved my mattress outside onto the veranda and shivered under
the brittle ice points of the stars. Desire, longing for Kaede—to be
honest, at that moment for any woman—tormented me. The door
slid open, and one of the girls from the household, I thought, came
out onto the veranda. As she closed the door behind her, I caught
her fragrance and recognized her tread.

Yuki knelt beside me. I reached out for her and pulled her down
next to me. Her girdle was already undone, her robe loose. I
remember feeling the most immense gratitude to her. She
loosened my clothes, making it all so easy for me—too easy; I was
too quick. She scolded me for my impatience, promising to teach
me. And so she did.

The next morning Akio looked at me searchingly. “You changed
your mmd last night?”

I wondered how he knew—if he had heard us through the flimsy
screens or if he was just guessing.

“One of the girls came to me. It seemed impolite to turn her away,”
I replied.

He grunted and did not pursue the matter, but he watched Yuki and
me carefully, even though we said nothing to each other, as though
he knew something had changed between us. I thought about her
constantly, swinging between elation and despair: elation because
the act of love with her was indescribably wonderful; despair
because she was not Kaede, and because what we did together
bound me ever more closely to the Tribe.

I couldn’t help remembering Kenji's comment as he left: It’s a
good
thing Yuki’s going to be around to keep an eye on you. He had
known this would happen. Had he planned it with her, instructed
her? Did Akio of course know, because he had been told? I was
filled with misgivings, and I did not trust Yuki, but it didn’t stop me
from going to her every time I had the chance. She, so much wiser
in these matters, made sure the chance arose often. And Akio’s
jealousy grew more apparent every day.

So our little group came to Matsue, outwardly united and in
harmony, but in fact torn by intense emotions that, being true
members of the Tribe, we concealed from outsiders and from one
another.

We stayed at the Kikuta house, another merchant’s place, smelling
of fermenting soybeans, paste, and sauce. The owner, Gosaburo,
was Kotaro’s youngest brother, also first cousin to my father. There
was little need for secrecy. We were now well beyond the Three
Countries and Arai’s reach, and in Matsue the local clan, the
Yoshida, had no quarrel with the Tribe, finding them equally useful
for moneylending, spying, and assassination. Here we had news of
Arai, who was busy subduing the East and the Middle Country,
making alliances, fighting border skirmishes, and setting up his
administration. We heard the first rumors of his campaign against
the Tribe and his intention to clear his lands of them, rumors that
were the source of much mirth and derision.

I will not set down the details of my training. Its aim was to harden
my heart and instill in me ruthlessness. But even now, years later,
the memory of its harshness and cruelty makes me flinch and want
to turn my eyes away. They were cruel times: Maybe Heaven was
angry, maybe men were taken over by devils, maybe when the
powers of good weaken, the brutal, with its nose for rot, storms in.
The Tribe, crudest of the cruel, flourished.

I was not the only Tribe member in training. There were several
other boys, most of them much younger, all of them born Kikuta
and raised in the family. The one closest to me in age was a solidly
built, cheerful-faced young man with whom I was often paired. His
name was Hajime, and though he did not exactly deflect Akio’s
rage toward me—to do so openly would be unthinkably
disobedient—he often managed to draw some of it away. There
was something about him I liked, though I would not go as far as to
say I trusted him. His fighting skills were far greater than mine. He
was a wrestler, and also strong enough to pull the huge bows of
the master archers, but in the skills that are given rather than
learned, neither he nor any of the others came near what I could
do. It was only now that I began to realize how exceptional these
skills were. I could go invisible for minutes on end, even in the bare
white-walled hall; sometimes not even Akio could see me. I could
split myself while fighting and watch my opponent grapple with my
second self from the other side of the room. I could move without
sound while my own hearing became ever more acute, and the
younger boys quickly learned never to look me directly in the eye. I
had put all of them to sleep at one time or another. I was learning
slowly to control this skill as I practiced on them. When I looked
into their eyes I saw the weaknesses and fears that made them
vulnerable to my gaze: sometimes their own inner fears,
sometimes fear of me and the uncanny powers that had been
given to me.

Every morning I did exercises with Akio to build up strength and
speed. I was slower and weaker than he was in almost all areas,
and he had gained nothing in patience. But to give him his due, he
was determined to teach me some of his skills in leaping and
flying, and he succeeded. Part of those skills were in me
already—my stepfather, after all, used to call me a wild
monkey—and Akio’s brutal but skillful
teaching drew them to the surface and showed me how to control
them. After only a few weeks I was aware of the difference in me,
of how much I had hardened in mind and body.

We always finished with fighting barehanded—not that the Tribe
used this art much, preferring assassination to actual combat—but
we were all trained in it. Then we sat in silent meditation, a robe
slung across our cooling bodies, keeping our body temperature up
by force of will. My head was usually ringing from some blow or fall,
and I did not empty my mind as I was supposed to but instead
dwelt savagely on how I would like to see Akio suffer. I gave to him
all of Jo-An’s torment that he’d once described to me.

My training was designed to encourage cruelty, and I embraced it
at the time wholeheartedly, glad for the skills it was giving me,
delighted at how they enhanced those I had learned with the Otori
warriors’ sons back when Shigeru was still alive. My fathers Kikuta
blood came to life in me. My mother’s compassion drained away,
along with all the teachings of my childhood. I no longer prayed;
neither the Secret God, nor the Enlightened One, nor the old spirits
meant anything to me. I did not believe in their existence and I saw
no evidence that they favored those who did. Sometimes in the
night I would wake suddenly and catch an unprotected glimpse of
myself, and shudder at what I was becoming, and then I would rise
silently and, if I could, go and find Yuki, lie down with her, and lose
myself in her.

We never spent the whole night together. Our encounters were
always short and usually silent. But one afternoon we found
ourselves alone in the house, apart from the servants who were
occupied in the shop. Akio and Hajime had taken the younger boys
to the shrme for some dedication ceremony, and I had been told to
copy some documents for Gosaburo. I was grateful for the task. I
rarely held a brush in my hands, and because I had learned to write
so late, I was always afraid the characters would desert me. The
merchant had a few books and, as Shigeru had instructed me, I
read whenever I could, but I had lost my inkstone and brushes at
Inuyama and had hardly written since.

I diligently copied the documents—records from the shop,
accounts of the amount of soybeans and rice purchased from local
farmers—but my fingers were itching to draw. I was reminded of
my first visit to Terayama, the brilliance of the summer day, the
beauty of the paintings, the little mountain bird I had drawn and
given to Kaede.

As always, when I was thinking of the past, my heart unguarded,
she came to me and took possession of me all over again. I could
feel her presence, smell the fragrance of her hair, hear her voice.
So strongly was she with me, I had a moment of fear, as if her
ghost had slipped into the room. Her ghost would be angry with
me, filled with resentment and rage for abandoning her. Her words
rang in my ears: I’m afraid of myself. I only feel safe with you.

It was cold in the room and already growing dark, with all the threat
of the winter to come. I shivered, full of remorse and regret. My
hands were numb with cold.

I could hear Yuki’s footsteps approaching from the back of the
building. I started writing again. She crossed the courtyard and
stepped out of her sandals onto the veranda of the records room. I
could smell burning charcoal. She had brought a small brazier,
which she placed on the floor next to me.

“You look cold,” she said. “Shall I bring tea?”

“Later, maybe.” I laid down the brush and held my hands out to the
warmth. She took them and rubbed them between her own.

“I’ll close the shutters,” she said.

“Then you’ll have to bring a lamp. I can’t see to write.”

She laughed quietly. The wooden shutters slid into place, one after
another. The room went dim, lit only by the faint glow of the
charcoal. When Yuki came back to me she had already loosened
her robe. Soon we were both warm. But after the act of love, as
wonderful as ever, my unease returned. Kaede’s spirit had been in
the room with me. Was I causing her anguish and arousing her
jealousy and spite?

Curled against me, the heat radiating from her, Yuki said, “A
message came from your cousin.”

“Which cousin?” I had dozens of them now. “Muto Shizuka.”

I eased myself away from Yuki so she would not hear the
quickened beating of my heart. “What did she say?”

“Lady Shirakawa is dying. Shizuka said she feared the end was
very near.” Yuki added in her indolent, sated voice, “Poor thing.”

She was glowing with life and pleasure. But the only thing I was
aware of in the room was Kaede, her frailty, her intensity, her
supernatural beauty. I called out to her in my soul: You cannot die. I
must see you again. I will come for you. Don’t die before I see you
again!

Her spirit gazed on me, her eyes dark with reproach and sorrow.
Yuki turned and looked up at me, surprised by my silence. “Shizuka
thought you should know: Was there something between you? My
father hinted as much, but he said it was just green love. He said
everyone who saw her became infatuated with her.”

I did not answer. Yuki sat up, pulling her robe around her. “It was
more than that, wasn’t it? You loved her.” She seized my hands
and turned me to face her. “You loved her,” she repeated, the
jealousy beginning to show in her voice, “Is it over?”

“It will never be over,” I said. “Even if she dies I can never stop
loving her.” Now that it was too late to tell Kaede, I knew that it was
true.

“That part of your life is finished,” Yuki said quietly but fiercely.

“All of it. Forget her! You will never see her again.” I could hear the
anger and frustration in her voice.

“I would never have told you if you had not mentioned her.” I pulled
my hands away from her and dressed again. The warmth had gone
from me as swiftly as it had come. The brazier was cooling.

“Bring some more charcoal,” I told Yuki. “And lamps. I must finish
the work.”

“Takeo—” she began, and then broke off abruptly. “I’ll send the
maid,” she said, getting to her feet. She touched the back of my
neck as she left, but I made no response. Physically we had been
deeply involved: Her hands had massaged me, and struck me in
punishment. We had killed side by side; we had made love. But
she had barely brushed the surface of my heart, and at that
moment we both knew it.

I made no sign of my grief, but I wept inwardly for Kaede and for
the life that we might have had together. No further word came
from Shizuka, though I never stopped listening for messengers.
Yuki did not mention the subject again. I could not believe Kaede
was dead, and in the daytime I clung to that belief, but the nights
were different.

The last of the color faded as leaves fell from maple and willow.
Strings of wild geese flew southward across the sullen sky.
Messengers became less frequent as the town began to close
down for winter. But they still came from time to time, bringing
news of Tribe activities and of the fighting in the Three Countries,
and, always, bringing new orders for our trade.

For that was how we described our work of spying and killing:
trade, with human lives measured out as so many units. I copied
records of these, too, often sitting till late into the night with Gos-
aburo, the merchant, moving from the soybean harvest to the
other, deadlier one. Both showed a fine profit, though the
soybeans had been affected by the storms while the murders had
not, though one candidate for assassination had drowned before
the Tribe could get to him and there was an ongoing dispute about
payment.

The Kikuta, being more ruthless, were supposed to be more
skilled at assassination than the Muto, who were traditionally the
most effective spies. These two families were the aristocracy of
the Tribe; the other three, Kuroda, Kudo, and Imai, worked at more
menial and humdrum tasks, being servants, petty thieves,
informants, and so on. Because the traditional skills were so
valued, there were many marriages between Muto and Kikuta,
fewer between them and the other families, though the exceptions
often threw up geniuses like the assassin Shintaro.

After dealing with the accounts, Kikuta Gosaburo would give me
lessons in genealogy, explaining the intricate relationships of the
Tribe that spread like an autumn spider’s web across the Three
Countries, into the North and beyond. He was a fat man with a
double chin like a woman’s and a smooth, plump face, deceptively
gentle-looking. The smell of fermentation clung to his clothes and
skin. If he was in a good mood he would call for wine and move
from genealogy into history—the Tribe history of my ancestors.
Little had changed in hundreds of years. Warlords might rise and
fall, clans flourish and disappear, but the trade of the Tribe in all the
essentials of life went on forever. Except now Arai wanted to bring
about change. All other powerful warlords worked with the Tribe.
Only Arai wanted to destroy them.

Gosaburo’s chins wobbled with laughter at the idea.

At first I was called on only as a spy, sent to overhear
conversations in taverns and teahouses, ordered to climb over
walls and roofs at night and listen to men confiding in their sons or
their wives. I heard the
townspeople’s secrets and fears, the Yoshida clan’s strategies for
spring, the concerns at the castle about Arai’s intentions beyond
the borders and about peasant uprisings close to home. I went into
the mountain villages, listened to those peasants, and identified the
ringleaders.

One night Gosaburo clicked his tongue in disapproval at a long-
overdue account. Not only had no payments been made, more
goods had been ordered. The man’s name was Furoda, a low-
ranking warrior who had turned to farming to support his large
family and his liking for the good things in life. Beneath his name I
read the symbols that indicated the rising level of intimidation
already used against him: A barn had been set alight, one of his
daughters abducted, a son beaten up, dogs and horses killed. Yet,
he still sank ever more deeply into the Kikuta’s debt.

“This could be one for the Dog,” the merchant said to Akio, who
had joined us for a glass of wine. Like everyone except Yuki, he
used Akio’s nickname for me.

Akio took the scroll and ran his eyes over Furoda’s sad history.
“He’s had a lot of leeway.”

“Well, he’s a likable fellow. I’ve known him since we were boys. I
can’t go on making allowances for him, though.”

“Uncle, if you don’t deal with him, isn’t everyone going to expect
the same leniency?” Akio said.

“That’s the trouble: No one’s paying on time at the moment. They
all think they can get away with it because Furoda has.” Gosaburo
sighed deeply, his eyes almost disappearing in the folds of his
cheeks. “I’m too softhearted. That’s my problem. My brothers are
always telling me.”

“The Dog is softhearted,” Akio said. “But we’re training him not to
be. He can take care of Furoda for you. It will be good for him.”

“If you kill him he can never pay his debts,” I said.

“But everyone else will.” Akio spoke as if pointing out an obvious
truth to a simpleton.

“It’s often easier to claim from a dead man than a live one,”
Gosaburo added apologetically.

I did not know this easygoing, pleasure-loving, irresponsible man,
and I did not want to kill him. But I did. A few days later I went at
night to his house on the outskirts of town, silenced the dogs, went
invisible, and slipped past the guards. The house was well barred
but I waited for him outside the privy. I had been watching the
house and I knew he always rose in the early hours to relieve
himself. He was a large, fleshy man who’d long since given up any
training and who had handed over the heavy work on the land to his
sons. He’d grown soft. He died with hardly a sound.

When I untwisted the garrote, rain had started to fall. The tiles of
the walls were slippery. The night was at its darkest. The rain could
almost be sleet. I returned to the Kikuta house silenced by the
darkness and the cold as if they had crept inside me and left a
shadow on my soul.

Furoda’s sons paid his debts, and Gosaburo was pleased with me.
I let no one see how much the murder had disturbed me, but the
next one was worse. It was on the orders of the Yoshida family.
Determined to put a stop to the unrest among the villagers before
winter, they put in a request for the leader to be eradicated. I knew
the man, knew his secret fields, though I had not yet revealed them
to anyone. Now I told Gosaburo and Akio where he could be found
alone every evening, and they sent me to meet him there.

He had rice and sweet potatoes concealed in a small cave, cut into
the side of the mountain and covered with stones and brushwood.
He was working on the banks of the field when I came silently up
the slope. I’d misjudged him: He was stronger than I thought, and
he fought back with his hoe. As we struggled together, my hood
slipped back and he saw my face. Recognition came into his eyes,
mixed with a sort of horror. In that moment I used my second self,
came behind him, and cut his throat, but I’d heard him call out to
my image.

“Lord Shigeru!”

I was covered with blood, his and mine, and dizzy from the blow I’d
not quite avoided. The hoe had glanced against my scalp and the
scrape was bleeding freely. His words disturbed me deeply. Had
he been calling to Shigeru’s spirit for help, or had he seen my
likeness and mistaken me for him? I wanted to question him, but
his eyes stared blankly up at the twilight sky. He was beyond
speech forever.

I went invisible and stayed so until I was nearly back at the Kikuta
house, the longest period I had ever used it for. I would have
stayed like that forever if I could. I could not forget the man’s last
words, and then I remembered what Shigeru had said, so long
ago, in Hagi: I have never kilkd an unarmed man, nor killed for
pleasure.

The clan lords were highly satisfied. The man’s death had taken
the heart out of the unrest. The villagers promptly became docile
and obedient. Many of them would die of starvation before the end
of winter. It was an excellent result, Gosaburo said.

But I began to dream of Shigeru every night. He entered the room
and stood before me as if he had just come out of the river, blood
and water streaming from him, saying nothing, his eyes fixed on
me as if he were waiting for me—the same way he had waited with
the patience of the heron for me to speak again.

Slowly it began to dawn on me that I could not bear the life I was
living, but I did not know how to escape it. I had made a bargain
with
the Kikuta that I was now finding impossible to keep. I’d made the
bargain in the heat of passion, not expecting to live beyond that
night, and with no understanding of my own self. I’d thought the
Kikuta master, who seemed to know me, would help me resolve
the deep divisions and contradictions of my nature, but he had sent
me away to Matsue with Akio, where my life with the Tribe might be
teaching me how to hide these contradictions but was doing
nothing to solve them; they were merely being driven deeper
inside me.

My black mood worsened when Yuki went away. She said nothing
to me about it, just vanished one day. In the morning I heard her
voice and her tread while we were at training. I heard her go to the
front door and leave without bidding anyone farewell. I listened all
day for her return, but she did not come back. I tried asking
casually where she was; the replies were evasive and I did not
want to question Akio or Gosaburo directly. I missed her deeply
but was also relieved that I no longer had to face the question of
whether to sleep with her or not. Every day since she had told me
about Kaede I’d resolved I would not, and every night I did.

Two days later, while I was thinking about her during the meditation
period at the end of the morning exercises, I heard one of the
servants come to the door and call softly to Akio. He opened his
eyes slowly and, with the air of calm composure that he always
assumed after meditating (and which I was convinced was only
assumed), he rose and went to the door.

“The master is here,” the girl said. “He is waiting for you.”

“Hey, Dog,” Akio called to me. The others sat without moving a
muscle, without looking up, as I stood. Akio jerked his head and I
followed him to the main room of the house, where Kikuta Kotaro
was drinking tea with Gosaburo.

We entered the room and bowed to the floor before him.

“Sit up,” he said, and studied me for a few moments. Then he
addressed Akio. “Have there been any problems?”

“Not really” Akio said, implying there had been quite a few.

“What about attitude? You have no complaints?”

Akio shook his head slowly.

“Yet, before you left Yamagata… ?”

I felt that Kotaro was letting me know he knew everything about me.

“It was dealt with,” Akio replied briefly.

“He’s been quite useful to me,” Gosaburo put in.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Kotaro said dryly.

His brother got to his feet and excused himself—the pressures of
business, the need to be in the shop. When he had left the master
said, “I spoke to Yuki last night.”

“Where is she?”

“That doesn’t matter. But she told me something that disturbs me a
little. We did not know that Shigeru went to Mino expressly to find
you. He let Muto Kenji believe the encounter happened by
chance.”

He paused but I said nothing. I remembered the day Yuki had
found this out, while she was cutting my hair. She had thought it
important information, important enough to pass on to the master.
No doubt she had told him everything else about me.

“It makes me suspect Shigeru had a greater knowledge of the
Tribe than we realized,” Kotaro said. “Is that true?”

“It’s true that he knew who I was,” I replied. “He had been friends
with the Muto master for many years. That’s all I know of his
relationship with the Tribe.”

“He never spoke to you of anything more?”

“No.” I was lying. In fact Shigeru had told me more, the night we
had talked in Tsuwano—that he had made it his business to find
out about the Tribe and that he probably knew more about them
than any other outsider. I had never shared this information with
Kenji and I saw no reason to pass it on to Kotaro. Shigeru was
dead, I was now bound to the Tribe, but I was not going to betray
his secrets.

I tried to make my voice and face guileless and said, “Yuki asked
me the same thing. What does it matter now?”

“We thought we knew Shigeru, knew his life,” Kotaro answered.
“He keeps surprising us, even after his death. He kept things
hidden even from Kenji—the affair with Maruyama Naomi, for
example. What else was he hiding?”

I shrugged slightly. I thought of Shigeru, nicknamed the Farmer,
with his openhearted smile, his seeming frankness and simplicity.
Everyone had misjudged him, especially the Tribe. He had been
so much more than any of them had suspected.

“Is it possible that he kept records of what he knew about the
Tribe?”

“He kept many records of all sorts of things,” I said, sounding
puzzled. “The seasons, his farming experiments, the land and
crops, his retainers. Ichiro, his former teacher, helped him with
them, but he often wrote himself.”

I could see him, writing late into the night, the lamp flickering, the
cold penetrating, his face alert and intelligent, quite different from
its usual bland expression.

“The journeys he made—did you go with him?”

“No, apart from our flight from Mino.”

“How often did he travel?”

“I’m not sure; while I was in Hagi he did not leave the city.”

Kotaro grunted. Silence crept into the room. I could barely hear the
others’ breathing. From beyond came the noon sounds of shop
and house, the click of the abacus, the voices of customers,
peddlers crying in the street outside. The wind was rising, whistling
under the eaves, shaking the screens. Already its breath held the
hint of snow.

The master spoke finally. “It seems most likely that he did keep
records, in which case they must be recovered. If they should fall
into Arai’s hands at this moment, it would be a disaster. You will
have to go to Hagi. Find out if the records exist and bring them
back here.”

I could hardly believe it. I had thought I would never go there again.
Now I was to be sent back to the house I loved so much.

“It’s a matter of the nightingale floor,” Kotaro said. “I believe
Shigeru had one built around his house and you mastered it.”

It seemed I was back there: I felt the heavy night air of the sixth
month, saw myself run as silently as a ghost, heard Shigeru’s
voice: Can you do it again?

I tried to keep my face under control, but I felt a flicker in the smile
muscles.

“You must leave at once,” Kotaro went on. “You have to get there
and back before the snows begin. It’s nearly the end of the year.
By the middle of the first month both Hagi and Matsue will be
closed by snow.”

He had not sounded angry before, but now I realized he was—
profoundly. Perhaps he had sensed my smile.

“Why did you never tell anyone this?” he demanded. “Why did you
keep it from Kenji?”

I felt my own anger rise in response. “Lord Shigeru did so and I
followed his lead. My first allegiance was to him. I would never
have revealed something he wanted kept secret. I was one of the
Otori then, after all.”

“And still thinks he is,” Akio put in. “It’s a question of loyalties.

It always will be with him.“ He added under his breath, ”A dog only
knows one master.“

I turned my gaze on him, willing him to look at me so I could shut
him up, put him to sleep, but after one swift, contemptuous glance,
he stared at the floor again.

“Well, that will be proved one way or the other,” Kotaro replied. “I
think this mission will test your loyalties to the full. If this Ichiro
knows of the existence and contents of the records, he’ll have to
be removed, of course.”

I bowed without saying anything, wondering if my heart had been
hardened to the extent where I could kill Ichiro, the old man who
had been Shigeru’s teacher and then mine: I’d thought I wanted to
often enough when he was chastising me and forcing me to learn,
but he was one of the Otori, one of Shigeru’s household. I was
bound to him by duty and loyalty as well as by my own grudging
respect and, I realized now, affection.

At the same time I was exploring the master’s anger, feeling its
taste in my mouth. It had a quality to it that was like Akio’s more or
less permanent state of rage against me, as if they both hated and
feared me. “The Kikuta were delighted to discover Isamu had left a
son,” Kenji’s wife had said. If they were so delighted why were they
so angry with me? But hadn’t she also said, “We all were”? And
then Yuki had told me of her mother’s old feelings for Shintaro.
Could his death really have delighted her?

She had seemed at that moment like a garrulous old woman, and I
had taken her words at face value. But moments later she’d
allowed me a glimpse of her skills. She’d been flattering me,
stroking my vanity in the same way she’d stroked my temples with
her phantom hands. The reaction of the Kikuta to my sudden
appearance was
darker and more complex than they would have me believe: Maybe
they were delighted with my skills, but there was also something
about me that alarmed them, and I still did not understand what it
was.

The anger that should have cowed me into obedience instead
made me more stubborn—indeed, struck fire on that stubbornness
and gave me energy. I felt it coiled inside me as I wondered at the
fate that was sending me back to Hagi.

“We are entering a dangerous time,” the master said, studying me
as if he could read my thoughts. “The Muto house in Yamagata
was searched and ransacked. Someone suspected you had been
there. However, Arai has returned to Inuyama now, and Hagi is a
long way from there. It’s a risk for you to return, but the risk of
records coming into anyone else’s hands is far greater.”

“What if they aren’t in Lord Shigeru’s house? They could be hidden
anywhere.”

“Presumably, Ichiro will know. Question him, and bring them back
from wherever they are.”

“Am I to leave immediately?”

“The sooner the better.”

“As an actor?”

“No actors travel at this time of year,” Akio said scornfully.
“Besides, we will go alone.”

I’d been offering a silent prayer that he would not be coming with
me. The master said, “Akio will accompany you. His grandfather—
your grandfather—has died, and you are returning to Hagi for the
memorial service.”

“I would prefer not to travel with Akio,” I said.

Akio drew his breath in sharply. Kotaro said, “There are no
preferences for you. Only obedience.”

I felt the stubbornness spark, and looked directly at him. He was
staring into my eyes as he had once before: He had put me to
sleep immediately then. But this time I could meet his gaze without
giving into it. There was something behind his eyes that made him
flinch slightly from me. I searched his look and a suspicion leaped
into my mind.

This is the man who killed my father.

I felt a moment of terror at what I was doing, then my own gaze
steadied and held. I bared my teeth, though I was far from smiling.
I saw the master’s look of astonishment and saw his vision cloud.
Then Akio was on his feet, striking me in the face, almost knocking
me to the ground.

“How dare you do that to the master? You have no respect, you
scum.”

Kotaro said, “Sit down, Akio.”

My eyes snapped back to him, but he was not looking at me.

“I’m sorry, master,” I said softly. “Forgive me.”

We both knew my apology was hollow. He stood swiftly and
covered the moment with anger.

“Ever since we located you we have been trying to protect you
from yourself.” He did not raise his voice but there was no
mistaking his fury. “Not only for your own sake, of course. You
know what your talents are and how useful they could be to us. But
your upbringing, your mixed blood, your own character, all work
against you. I thought training here would help, but we don’t have
time to continue it. Akio will go with you to Hagi and you will
continue to obey him in all things. He is far more experienced than
you; he knows where the safe houses are, whom to contact and
who can be trusted.”

He paused while I bowed in acceptance, and then went on, “You
and I made a bargain at Inuyama. You chose to disobey my orders
then and return to the castle. The results of Iida’s death have not
been good for us. We were far better off under him than under
Arai. Apart from our own laws of obedience that any child learns
before they turn seven, your life is already forfeit to me by your
own promise.”

I did not reply. I felt he was close to giving up on me, that his
patience with me, the understanding of my nature that had calmed
and soothed me, was running dry. As was my trust in him. The
terrible suspicion lay in my mind; once it had arisen there was no
eradicating it: My father had died at the hands of the Tribe, maybe
even killed by Kotaro himself, because he had tried to leave them.
Later I would realize that this explained many things about the
Kikuta’s dealings with me—their insistence on my obedience, their
ambivalent attitude to my skills, their contempt of my loyalty to
Shigeru—but at that time it only increased my depression. Akio
hated me, I had insulted and offended the Kikuta master, Yuki had
left me, Kaede was probably dead… I did not want to go on with
the list. I gazed with unseeing eyes at the floor while Kikuta and
Akio discussed details of the journey.

We left the following morning. There were many travelers on the
road, taking advantage of the last weeks before the snow fell,
going home for the New Year Festival. We mingled with them, two
brothers returning to our hometown for a funeral. It was no hardship
to pretend to be overcome by grief. It seemed to have become my
natural state. The only thing that lightened the blackness that
enveloped me was the thought of seeing the house in Hagi and
hearing for one last time its winter song.

My training partner, Hajime, traveled with us for the first day; he was
on his way to join a wrestling stable for the winter to prepare for the
spring tournaments. We stayed that night with the wrestlers and ate
the evening meal with them. They consumed huge stews of
vegetables and chicken, a meat they considered lucky because
the chicken’s hands never touch the ground, with noodles made of
rice and buckwheat, more for each one than most families would
eat in a week. Hajime, with his large bulk and calm face, resembled
them already. He had been connected with this stable, which was
run by the Kikuta, since he was a child, and the wrestlers treated
him with teasing affection.

Before the meal we bathed with them in the vast steamy
bathhouse, built across a scalding, sulfurous spring. Masseurs and
trainers mingled among them, rubbing and scrubbing the massive
limbs and torsos. It was like being among a race of giants. They all
knew Akio, of course, and treated him with ironic deference,
because he was the boss’s family, mixed with kindly scorn,
because he was not a wrestler. Nothing was said about me, and
nobody paid me any attention. They were absorbed in their own
world. I obviously had only the slightest connection to it and
therefore was of no interest to them.

So I said nothing, but listened. I overheard plans for the spring
tournament, the hopes and desires of the wrestlers, the jokes
whispered by the masseurs, the propositions made, spurned, or
accepted. And much later, when Akio had ordered me to bed and I
was already lying on a mat in the communal hall, I heard him and
Hajime in the room below. They had decided to sit up for a while
and drink together before they parted the next day.

I tuned out the snores of the wrestlers and concentrated on the
voices below. I could hear them clearly through the floor. It always
amazed me that Akio seemed to forget how acute my hearing was.
I supposed he did not want to acknowledge my gifts, and this
made him underestimate me. At first I thought it was a weakness in
him, almost the only one; later it occurred to me that there were
some things he might have wanted me to hear.

The conversation was commonplace—the training Hajime would
undergo, the friends they’d caught up with—until the wine began to
loosen their tongues.

“You’ll go to Yamagata, presumably?” Hajime asked.

“Probably not. The Muto master is still in the mountains, and the
house is empty.”

“I assumed Yuki had gone back to her family.”

“No, she’s gone to the Kikuta village, north of Matsue. She’ll stay
there until the child is born.”

“The child?” Hajime sounded as dumbfounded as I was.

There was a long silence. I heard Akio drink and swallow. When he
spoke again his voice was much quieter. “She is carrying the Dog’s
child.”

Hajime hissed through his teeth. “Sorry, Cousin, I don’t want to
upset you, but was that part of the plan?”

“Why should it not have been?”

“I always thought, you and she… that you would marry eventually.”

“We have been promised to each other since we were children,”
Akio said. “We may still marry. The masters wanted her to sleep
with him, to keep him quiet, to distract him, to get a child if
possible.”

If he felt pain he was not showing it. “I was to pretend suspicion
and jealousy,” he said flatly. “If the Dog knew he was being
manipulated, he might never have gone with her. Well, I did not
have to pretend it: I did not realize she would enjoy it so much. I
could not believe how she was with him, seeking him out day and
night like a
bitch in heat—“ His voice broke off. I heard him gulp down a cup of
wine and heard the clink and gurgle of the flask as more was
poured.

“Good must come of it, though,” Hajime suggested, his voice
regaining some of its cheerfulness. “The child will inherit a rare
combination of talents.”

“So the Kikuta master thinks. And this child will be with us from
birth. It will be raised properly, with none of the Dog’s
deficiencies.”

“It’s astonishing news,” Hajime said. “No wonder you’ve been
preoccupied.”

“Most of the time I’m thinking about how I’ll kill him,” Akio
confessed, drinking deeply again.

“You’ve been ordered to?” Hajime said bleakly.

“It all depends on what happens at Hagi. You might say he’s on his
last chance.”

“Does he know that? That he’s being tested?”

“If he doesn’t, he’ll soon find out,” Akio said. After another long
pause he said, “If the Kikuta had known of his existence, they
would have claimed him as a child and brought him up. But he was
ruined first by his upbringing and then by his association with the
Otori.”

“His father died before he was born. Do you know who killed him?”

“They drew lots,” Akio whispered. “No one knows who actually did
it, but it was decided by the whole family. The master told me this
in Inuyama.”

“Sad,” Hajime murmured. “So much talent wasted.”

“It comes from mixing the blood,” Akio said. “It’s true that it
sometimes throws up rare talents, but they seem to come with
stupidity. And the only cure for stupidity is death.”

Shortly afterward they came to bed. I lay still, feigning sleep, until
daybreak, my mind gnawing uselessly at the news. I was sure that
no matter what I did or failed to do in Hagi, Akio would seize on any
excuse to kill me there.

As we bade farewell to Hajime the next morning, he would not look
me in the eye. His voice held a false cheerfulness, and he stared
after us, his expression glum. I imagine he thought he would never
see me again.

We traveled for three days, barely speaking to each other, until we
came to the barrier that marked the beginning of the Otori lands. It
presented no problem to us, Akio having been supplied with the
necessary tablets of identification. He made all the decisions on
our journey: where we should eat, where we should stop for the
night, which road we should take. I followed passively. I knew he
would not kill me before we got to Hagi; he needed me to get into
Shigeru’s house, across the nightingale floor. After a while I began
to feel a sort of regret that we weren’t good friends, traveling
together. It seemed a waste of a journey. I longed for a
companion, someone like Makoto or my old friend from Hagi,
Fumio, with whom I could talk on the road and share the confusion
of my thoughts.

Once we were in Otori land I expected the countryside to look as
prosperous as it had when I had first traveled through it with
Shigeru, but everywhere bore signs of the ravages of the storms
and the famine that followed them. Many villages seemed to be
deserted, damaged houses stood unrepaired, starving people
begged at the side of the road. I overheard snatches of
conversation: how the Otori lords were now demanding sixty
percent of the rice harvest, instead of the forty percent they had
taken previously, to pay for the army they were raising to fight Arai,
and how men might as well kill themselves and their children rather
than starve slowly to death when winter came.

Earlier in the year we might have made the journey more swiftly by
boat, but the winter gales were already lashing the coast, driving
foaming gray waves onto the black shore. The fishermen’s boats
were moored in such shelter as they could find, or pulled high onto
the shingle, lived in by families until spring. Throughout winter the
fishing families burned fires to get salt from the seawater. Once or
twice we stopped to warm ourselves and eat with them, Akio
paying them a few small coins. The food was meager: salt fish,
soup made from kelp, sea urchins, and small shellfish.

One man begged us to buy his daughter, take her with us to Hagi,
and use her ourselves or sell her to a brothel. She could not have
been more than thirteen years old, barely into womanhood. She
was not pretty, but I can still recall her face, her eyes both
frightened and pleading, her tears, the look of relief when Akio
politely declined, the despair in her father’s attitude as he turned
away.

That night Akio grumbled about the cold, regretting his decision.
“She’d have kept me warm,” he said more than once.

I thought of her sleeping next to her mother, faced with the choice
between starvation and what would have been no more than
slavery. I thought about Furoda’s family, turned out of their shabby,
comfortable house, and I thought of the man I’d killed in his secret
field, and the village that would die because of me.

These things did not bother anyone else—it was the way the world
¦but they haunted me. And of course, as I did every night, I took
wa; out the thoughts that had lain within me all day and examined
them.

Yuki was carrying my child. It was to be raised by the Tribe. I would
probably never even set eyes on it.

The Kikuta had killed my father because he had broken the rules of
the Tribe, and they would not hesitate to kill me.

I made no decisions and came to no conclusions. I simply lay
awake for long hours of the night, holding the thoughts as I would
hold black pebbles in my hand, and looking at them.

The mountains fell directly to the sea around Hagi, and we had to
turn inland and climb steeply before we crossed the last pass and
began the descent toward the town.

My heart was full of emotion, though I said nothing and gave
nothing away. The town lay as it always had, in the cradle of the
bay, encircled by its twin rivers and the sea. It was late afternoon
on the day of the winter solstice, and a pale sun was struggling
through gray clouds. The trees were bare, fallen leaves thick
underfoot. Smoke from the burning of the last rice stalks spread a
blue haze that hung above the rivers, level with the stone bridge.

Preparations were already being made for the New Year Festival:
Sacred ropes of straw hung everywhere and dark-leaved pine
trees had been placed by doorways; the shrines were filling with
visitors. The river was swollen with the tide that was just past the
turn and ebbing. It sang its wild song to me, and beneath its
churning waters I seemed to hear the voice of the stonemason,
walled up inside his creation, carrying on his endless conversation
with the river. A heron rose from the shallows at our approach.

When we crossed the bridge I read again the inscription that
Shigeru had read to me: The Otori clan welcomes the just and the
loyal. Let the unjust and the disloyal beware.

Unjust and disloyal I was both: disloyal to Shigeru, who had
entrusted his lands to me, and unjust as the Tribe are, unjust and
pitiless.

I walked through the streets, head down and eyes lowered,
changing the set of my features in the way Kenji had taught me. I
did not think anyone would recognize me. I had grown a little and
had become both leaner and more muscular during the past months. My
hair was cut short; my clothes were those of an artisan. My body
language, my speech, my gait—everything about me was changed
since the days when I’d walked through these streets as a young
lord of the Otori clan.

We went to a brewery on the edge of town. I’d walked by it dozens
of times in the past, knowing nothing of its real trade. But, I thought,
Shigeru would have known. The idea pleased me: that he had kept
track of the Tribe’s activities, had known things that they were
ignorant of, had known of my existence.

The place was busy with preparations for the winters work. Huge
amounts of wood were being gathered to heat the vats, and the air
was thick with the smell of fermenting rice. We were met by a
small, distracted man who resembled Kenji. He was from the Muto
family; Yuzuru was his given name. He had not been expecting
visitors so late in the year, and my presence and what we told him
of our mission unnerved him. He took us hastily inside to another
concealed room.

“These are terrible times,” he said. “The Otori are certain to start
preparing for war with Arai in the spring. It’s only winter that
protects us now.”

“You’ve heard of Arai’s campaign against the Tribe?”

“Everyone’s talking about it,” Yuzuru replied. “We’ve been told we
should support the Otori against him as much as we can for that
reason.” He shot a look at me and said resentfully, “Things were
much better under Iida. And surely it’s a grave mistake to bring him
here. If anyone should recognize him…”

“We’ll be gone tomorrow,” Akio replied. “He just has to retrieve
something from his former home.”

“From Lord Shigeru’s? It’s madness. He'll be caught.”

“I don’t think so. He’s quite talented.” I thought I heard mockery
beneath the compliment and took it as one more indication that he
meant to kill me.

Yuzuru stuck out his bottom lip. “Even monkeys fall from trees.
What can be so important?”

“We think Otori might have kept extensive records on the Tribe’s
affairs.”

“Shigeru? The Farmer? Impossible!”

Akio’s eyes hardened. “Why do you think that?”

“Everyone knows… well, Shigeru was a good man. Everyone loved
him. His death was a terrible tragedy. But he died because he
was…” Yuzuru blinked furiously and looked apologetically at me.
“He was too trusting. Innocent almost. He was never a conspirator.
He knew nothing about the Tribe.”

“We have reasons to think otherwise,” Akio said. “We’ll know who’s
right before tomorrow’s dawn.”

“You’re going there tonight?”

“We must be back in Matsue before the snows come.”

“Well, they’ll be early this year, possibly before the year’s end.”
Yuzuru sounded relieved to be talking about something as
mundane as the weather. “All the signs are for a long, hard winter.
And if springs going to bring war, I wish it may never come.”

It was already freezing within the small, dark room, the third such
that I had been concealed in. Yuzuru himself brought us food,
tea— already cooling by the time we tasted it—and wine. Akio
drank the wine but I did not, feeling I needed my senses to remain
acute. We sat without speaking as night fell.

The brewery quieted around us, though its smell did not diminish. I
listened to the sounds of the town, each one so familiar to me, I
felt I could pinpoint the exact street, the exact house, it came from.

The familiarity relaxed me, and my depression began to lift a little.
The bell sounded from Daishoin, the nearest temple, for the
evening prayers. I could picture the weathered building, the deep
green darkness of its prove, the stone lanterns that marked the
graves of the Otori lords and their retainers. I fell into a sort of
waking dream in which I was walking among them.

Then Shigeru came to me again as if from out of a white mist,
dripping with water and blood, his eyes burning black, holding an
unmistakable message for me. I snapped awake, shivering with
cold. Akio said, “Drink some wine, it’ll steady your nerves.” I shook
my head, stood, and went through the limbering exercises the
Tribe use until I was warm. Then I sat in meditation, trying to retain
the heat, focusing my mind on the night’s work, drawing together all
my powers, knowing now how to do at will what I had once done by
instinct.

From Daishoin the bell sounded. Midnight. I heard Yuzuru
approaching, and the door slid open. He beckoned to us and led
us through the house to the outer gates. Here he alerted the
guards and we went over the wall. One dog barked briefly but was
silenced with a cuff.

It was pitch dark, the air icy, a raw wind blowing off the sea. On
such a foul night no one was on the streets. We went silently to the
riverbank and walked southeast toward the place where the rivers
joined. The fish weir where I had often crossed to the other side
lay exposed by the low tide. Just beyond it was Shigeru’s house.
On the near bank, boats were moored. We used to cross the river
in them to his lands on the opposite side, the rice fields and farms,
where he tried to teach me about agriculture and irrigation, crops,
and coppices. And boats had brought the wood for the tearoom
and the nightingale floor, listing low in the water with the sweet-
smelling planks, freshly
cut from the forests beyond the farms. Tonight it was too dark even
to make out the mountain slopes where the trees had grown.

We crouched by the side of the narrow road and looked at the
house. There were no lights visible, just the dim glow of a brazier
from the guardroom at the gate. I could hear men and dogs
breathing deeply in sleep. The thought crossed my mind: They
would not have slept so had Shigeru been alive. I was angry on his
behalf, not least with myself.

Akio whispered, “You know what you have to do?”

I nodded.

“Go, then.”

We made no other plans. He simply sent me off as if I were a
falcon or a hunting dog. I had a fair idea what his own plan was:
when I returned with the records, he would take them—and I would
be reported unfortunately killed by the guards, my body thrown into
the river.

I crossed the street, went invisible, leaped over the wall, and
dropped into the garden. Immediately the muffled song of the
house enveloped me: the sighing of the wind in the trees, the
murmur of the stream, the splash of the waterfall, the surge of the
river as the tide began to flow. Sorrow swept over me. What was I
doing returning here in the night like a thief? Almost unconsciously
I let my face change, let my Otori look return.

The nightingale floor extended around the whole house, but it held
no threat to me. Even in the dark I could still cross it without making
it sing. On the farther side I climbed the wall to the window of the
upper room—the same route the Tribe assassin, Shintaro, had
taken over a year ago. At the top I listened. The room seemed
empty.

The shutters were closed against the freezing night air, but they
were not bolted, and it was easy to slide them apart enough to
creep through. Inside it was barely any warmer and even darker.
The room smelled musty and sour, as if it had been closed for a
long time, as if no one sat there anymore save ghosts.

I could hear the household breathing and recognized the sleep of
each one. But I could not place the one I needed to find: Ichiro. I
stepped down the narrow staircase, knowing its favorite creaks as I
knew my own hands. Once below I realized the house was not
completely dark as it had appeared from the street. In the farthest
room, the one Ichiro favored, a lamp was burning. I went quietly
toward it. The paper screen was closed, but the lamp threw the
shadow of the old man onto it. I slid open the door.

He raised his head and looked at me without surprise. He smiled
sorrowfully and made a slight movement with his hand. “What can I
do for you? You know I would do anything to bring you peace, but I
am old. I have used the pen more than the sword.”

“Teacher,” I whispered. “It’s me. Takeo.” I stepped into the room,
slid the door closed behind me, and dropped to my knees before
him. He gave a shudder as if he had been asleep and just woken,
or as if he had been in the world of the dead and been called back
by the living. He grabbed my shoulders and pulled me toward him,
into the lamplight. “Takeo? Can it really be you?” He ran his hands
over my head, my limbs, as though fearing I were an apparition,
tears trickling down his cheeks. Then he embraced me, cradling
my head against his shoulder as if I were his long-lost son. I could
feel his thin chest heaving.

He pulled back a little and gazed into my face. “I thought you were
Shigeru. He often visits me at night. He stands there in the
doorway. I know what he wants, but what can I do?” He wiped the
tears away with his sleeve. “You’ve grown like him. It’s quite
uncanny. Where have you been all this time? We thought you, too,
must have
been murdered, except that every few weeks someone comes to
the house looking for you, so we assumed you were still alive.“

“I was hidden by the Tribe,” I said, wondering how much he knew
of my background. “First in Yamagata, for the last two months in
Matsue. I made a bargain with them. They kidnapped me at
Inuyama but released me to go into the castle and bring Lord
Shigeru out. In return I agreed to enter their service. You may not
know that I am bound to them by blood.”

“Well, I’d assumed it,” Ichiro said. “Why else would Muto Kenji
have turned up here?” He took my hand and pressed it with
emotion. “Everyone knows the story of how you rescued Shigeru
and slew Iida in revenge. I don’t mind telling you, I always thought
he was making a grave mistake adopting you, but you silenced all
my misgivings and paid all your debts to him that night.”

“Not quite all. The Otori lords betrayed him to Iida and they are still
unpunished.”

“Is that what you have come for? That would bring rest to his spirit.”

“No, I was sent by the Tribe. They believe Lord Shigeru kept
records on them and they want to retrieve them.”

Ichiro smiled wryly. “He kept records of many things. I go through
them every night. The Otori lords claim your adoption was not legal
and that anyway you are probably dead, therefore Shigeru has no
heirs and his lands must revert to the castle. I’ve been looking for
more proof so that you may keep what is yours.” His voice became
stronger and more urgent. “You must come back, Takeo. Half the
clan will support you for what you did in Inuyama. Many suspect
that Shigeru’s uncles planned his death and are outraged by it.
Come back and finish your revenge!”

Shigeru’s presence was all around us. I expected him at any mo-
ment to walk into the room with his energetic step, his openhearted
smile, and the dark eyes that looked so frank yet hid so much.

“I feel I must,” I said slowly. “I will have no peace unless I do. But
the Tribe will certainly try to kill me if I desert them—more than try;
they will not rest until they have succeeded.”

Ichiro took a deep breath. “I don’t believe I have misjudged you,”
he said. “If I have, you came prepared to kill me anyway. I am old, I
am ready to move on. But I would like to see Shigeru’s work
finished. It’s true, he did keep records on the Tribe. He believed no
one could bring peace to the Middle Country while the Tribe were
so strong, so he devoted himself to finding out all he could about
them and he wrote it all down. He made sure no one knew what
was in his records, not even me. He was extremely secretive, far
more than anyone ever realized. He had to be; for ten years both
Iida and his uncles had tried to get rid of him.”

“Can you give them to me?”

“I will not give them back to the Tribe,” he said. The lamp flickered,
suddenly sending a crafty look across his face that I had never
seen before. “I must get more oil or we’ll be sitting in darkness. Let
me wake Chiyo.”

“Better not,” I said, even though I would have loved to have seen
the old woman who ran the house and treated me like a son. “I
can’t stay.”

“Did you come alone?”

I shook my head. “Kikuta Akio is waiting for me outside.”

“Is he dangerous?”

“He’s almost certainly going to try to kill me. Especially if I return to
him empty-handed.” I was wondering what hour it was, what Akio
was doing. The house’s winter song was all around me. I did not
want to leave it. My choices seemed to be narrowing. Ichiro would
never hand the records over to the Tribe; I would never be able to
kill him to get them. I took my knife from my sash, felt its familiar
weight in my hand. “I should take my own life now.”

“Well, it would be one answer,” Ichiro said, and sniffed. “But not a
very satisfactory one. I would then have two unquiet ghosts visiting
me in the night. And Shigeru’s murderers would go unpunished.”

The lamp spluttered. Ichiro stood. “I’ll get more oil,” he muttered. I
listened to him shuffling through the house and thought about
Shigeru. How many nights would he have sat until late in this very
room? Boxes of scrolls stood around me. As I gazed idly at them I
suddenly remembered with complete clarity the wooden chest that
I had carried up the slope as a gift for the abbot on the day we had
visited the temple to see the Sesshu paintings. I thought I saw
Shigeru smile at me.

When Ichiro had returned and fixed the lamp, he said, “Anyway, the
records aren’t here.”

“I know,” I said. “They are at Terayama.”

Ichiro grinned. “If you want my advice, even though you never took
any notice of it in the past, go there. Go now, tonight. I’ll give you
money for the journey. They’ll hide you for the winter. And from
there you can plan your revenge on the Otori lords. That’s what
Shigeru wants.”

“It’s what I want too. But I made a bargain with the Kikuta master. I
am bound to the Tribe now by my word.”

“I think you swore allegiance to the Otori first,” Ichiro said. “Didn’t
Shigeru save your life before the Tribe had even heard of you?”

I nodded.

“And you said Akio would kill you? They have already broken faith
with you. Can you get past him? Where is he?”

“I left him in the road outside. He could be anywhere now.”

“Well, you can hear him first, can’t you? And what about those
tricks you used to play on me? Always somewhere else when I
thought you were studying.”

“Teacher…” I began. I was going to apologize but he waved me
silent. “I forgive you everything. It was not my teaching that enabled
you to bring Shigeru out of Inuyama.”

He left the room again and came back with a small string of coins
and some rice cakes wrapped in kelp. I had no carrying cloth or
box to put them in, and anyway I was going to need both hands
free. I tied the money into my loincloth beneath my clothes and put
the rice cakes in my belt.

“Can you find the way?” he said, starting to fuss as he used to in
the past over a shrine visit or some other outing.

“I think so.”

“I’ll write you a letter to get you through the barrier. You’re a servant
of this household—it’s what you look like—making arrangements
for my visit to the temple next year. I’ll meet you in Terayama when
the snows melt. Wait for me there. Shigeru was in alliance with
Arai. I don’t know how things stand between you, but you should
seek Arai’s protection. He will be grateful for any information he
can use against the Tribe.”

He took up the brush and wrote swiftly. “Can you still write?” he
asked, without looking up.

“Not very skillfully.”

“You’ll have all winter to practice.” He sealed the letter and stood.
“By the way, what happened to Jato?”

“It came into my hands. It’s being kept for me at Terayama.”

“Time to go back for it.” He smiled again and grumbled, “Chiyo’s
going to kill me for not waking her.”

I slipped the letter inside my clothes and we embraced.

“Some strange fate ties you to this house,” he said. “I believe it is a
bond you cannot escape.” His voice broke and I saw he was close
to tears again.

“I know it,” I whispered. “I will do everything you suggest.” I knew I
could not give up this house and inheritance. They were mine. I
would reclaim them. Everything Ichiro had said made perfect
sense. I had to escape from the Tribe. Shigeru’s records would
protect me from them and give me bargaining power with Arai. If I
could only get to Terayama… left the house the same way I had
come, out through the upstairs window, down the wall, and across
the nightingale floor. It slept under my feet, but I vowed next time I
walked on it I would make it sing. I did not scale the wall back into
the street. Instead, I ran silently through the garden, went invisible,
and, clinging like a spider to the stones, climbed through the
opening where the stream flowed into the river. I dropped into the
nearest boat, untied it, took up the oar that lay in the stern, and
pushed off into the river.

The boat groaned slightly under my weight, and the current lapped
more strongly at it. To my dismay the sky had cleared. It was much
colder and, under the three-quarters moon, much brighter. I heard
the thud of feet from the bank, sent my image back to the wall, and
crouched low in the boat. But Akio was not deceived by my second
self. He leaped from the wall as if he were flying. I went invisible
again, even though I knew it was probably useless against him,
bounded from my boat, and flew low across the surface of the
water into another of the boats that lay against the river wall. I
scrabbled to undo its rope and pushed off with its oar. I saw Akio
land and steady himself against the rocking of the craft; then he
sprang and flew again as I split myself, left the second self in one
boat, and leaped for the other. I felt the air shift as we passed each
other. Controlling my fall, I dropped into my first boat, took up the
oar, and began to scull faster than I ever had in my life. My second
self faded as Akio grasped it, and I saw him prepare to leap again.
There was no escape unless I went into the river. I drew my knife
and as he landed stabbed at him with one hand. He moved with his
usual speed and ducked easily under the knife. I had anticipated
his move and caught him on the side of the head with the oar. He
fell, stunned for a moment, while I, thrown off balance by the
violent rocking of the boat, narrowly escaped tumbling overboard. I
dropped the oar and clung to the wooden side. I did not want to go
into the freezing water unless I took him with me and drowned him.
As I slid to the other side of the boat Akio recovered. He leaped
straight upward and came down on top of me. We fell together and
he seized me by the throat.

I was still invisible but helpless, pinned under him like a carp on the
cook’s slab. I felt my vision blacken; then he loosened his grip
slightly.

“You traitor,” he said. “Kenji warned us you would go back to the
Otori in the end. I’m glad you did, because I’ve wanted you dead
since the first time we met. You’re going to pay now. For your
insolence to the Kikuta, for my hand. And for Yuki.”

“Kill me,” I said, “as your family killed my father. You will never
escape our ghosts. You will be cursed and haunted till the day you
die. You murdered your own kin.”

The boat moved beneath us drifting with the tide. If Akio had used
his hands or knife then, I would not be telling this story. But he
couldn’t resist one last taunt. “Your child will be mine. I’ll bring him
up properly as a real Kikuta.” He shook me violently, “Show me
your face,” he snarled. “I want to see your look when I tell you how
I’ll teach him to hate your memory. I want to watch you die.”

He leaned closer, his eyes searching for my face. The boat drifted
into the path of the moon. As I saw its brightness I let visibility
return and looked straight into his eyes. I saw what I wanted to find:
the jealous hatred of me that clouded his judgment and weakened
him.

He realized in a split second and tried to wrench his gaze away but
the blow from the oar must have slowed his usual quickness and it
was too late. He was already made dizzy by the encroaching Kikuta
sleep. He slumped sideways, his eyelids flickering erratically as he
fought it. The boat tipped and rocked. His own weight took him
headfirst into the river.

The boat drifted on, faster now, carried by the swelling tide. In the
moonlit road across the water I saw the body surface. It floated
gently. I was not going to go back and finish him off. I hoped he’d
drown or freeze to death but I left it to fate. I took up the oar and
sculled the boat to the far shore.

By the time I got there I was shivering with cold. The first roosters
were crowing and the moon was low in the sky. The grass on the
bank was stiff with frost and stones and twigs gleamed white. I
disturbed a sleeping heron and wondered if it was the one that
came to fish in Shigeru’s garden. It flew off from the highest
branches of the willow with the familiar clack of wmgs.

I was exhausted but far too wrought up to think of sleep, and
anyway I had to keep moving to warm myself. I forced myself to a
quick pace, following the narrow mountain road toward the
southeast. The moon was bright and I knew the track. By daybreak
I was over the first pass and on my way down to a small village.
Hardly anyone was stir-
ring, but an old woman was blowing up the embers in her hearth
and she heated some soup for me in return for one of the coins. I
complained to her about my senile old master sending me off on a
wild-goose chase through the mountains to a remote temple. The
winter would undoubtedly finish him off and I’d be stranded there.

She cackled and said, “You’ll have to become a monk, then!”

“Not me. I like women too much.”

This pleased her, and she found some freshly pickled plums to
add to my breakfast. When she saw my string of coins she wanted
to give me lodging as well as food. Eating had brought the sleep
demon closer, and I longed to lie down, but I was too afraid of
being recognized and I already regretted I had said as much as I
had to her. I might have left Akio in the river, but I knew how the
river gives up its victims, both the living and the dead, and I feared
his pursuit. I was not proud of my defection from the Tribe after I
had sworn to obey them, and in the cold light of morning I was
beginning to realize what the rest of my life would be like. I had
made my choice to return to the Otori, but now I would never be
free from the dread of assassination. An entire secret organization
would be drawn up against me to punish me for my disloyalty. To
slip through their web, I had to move faster than any of their
messengers would. And I had to get to Terayama before it began
to snow.

The sky had turned the color of lead when I reached Tsuwano on
the afternoon of the second day. My thoughts were all of my
meeting there with Kaede and the sword-training session when I
had fallen in love with her. Was her name already entered in the
ledgers of the dead? Would I have to light candles for her now
every year at the Festival of the Dead until I died? Would we be
joined in the afterworld, or were we condemned never to meet
again either in life or in death? Grief and shame gnawed at me.
She had said, “I only feel safe with you,” and I had abandoned her.
If fate were to be kind and she were to come into my hands again,
I would never let her go.

I regretted bitterly my decision to go with the Tribe, and I went over
the reasons behind my choice many times. I believed I had made
a bargain with them and my life was forfeit to them—that was one
thing. But beyond that I blamed my own vanity. I had wanted to
know and develop the side of my character that came from my
father, from the Kikuta, from the Tribe: the dark inheritance that
gave me skills I was proud of. I had responded eagerly and
willingly to their seduction, the mixture of flattery, understanding,
and brutality with which they had used and manipulated me. I
wondered how much chance I had to get away from them.

My thoughts went round and round in circles. I was walking in a kind
of daze. I’d slept a little in the middle of the day in a hollow off the
side of the road, but the cold woke me. The only way to stay warm
was to keep walking. I skirted the town and, descending through
the pass, picked up the road again near the river. The current had
subsided from the full flood caused by the storms that had delayed
us in Tsuwano, and the banks had been mended, but the bridge
here, a wooden one, was still in ruins. I paid a boatman to take me
across. No one else was traveling so late; I was his last customer. I
felt he was eyeing me curiously but he did not speak to me. I could
not place him as Tribe but he made me uneasy. He dropped me
on the other side and I walked quickly away. When I turned at the
corner of the road, he was still watching me. I made a movement
with my head but he did not acknowledge it.

It was colder than ever, the air dank and icy. I was already
regretting that I had not found shelter for the night. If I was caught
by a blizzard before the next town, I stood little chance of surviving.
Yam-agata was still several days away. There would be a post
station at the fief border, but, despite Ichiro’s letter and my
disguise as a servant, I did not want to spend the night there—too
many curious people, too many guards. I didn’t know what to do,
so I kept walking.

Night fell. Even with my Tribe-trained eyes it was hard to see the
road. Twice I wandered off it and had to retrace my steps. Once I
stumbled into some sort of hole or ditch with water at the bottom,
soaking my legs up to the knees. The wind howled and strange
sounds came from the woods, reminding me of legends of
monsters and goblins and making me think the dead walked
behind me.

By the time the sky began to pale in the east, I was frozen to the
bone and shivering uncontrollably. I was glad to see the dawn but it
gave no relief from the bitter cold. Instead it just brought home to
me how alone I was. For the first time the idea crept insidiously into
my head that if the fief border was manned by Aral’s men, I would
give myself up to them. They would take me to Arai, but first they
would surely give me something hot to drink. They would sit me
down inside by the fire and make tea for me. I became obsessed
by the thought of that tea. I could feel the heat of the steam on my
face, the warmth of the bowl in my hands. I was so obsessed by it
that I did not notice someone walking behind me.

I was aware suddenly of a presence at my back. I turned,
astonished that I had not heard the footfall on the road, had not
even heard breathing. I was amazed, even frightened, at my
apparent loss of hearing. It was as though this traveler had fallen
from the sky or walked above the ground as the dead do. Then I
knew that either exhaustion had unhinged my mind or I was indeed
seeing a ghost, for the man walking just behind me was the outcast
Jo-An, who I thought had been tortured to death by Arai’s men in
Yamagata.

So great was the shock, I thought I would faint. The blood rushed
from my head, making me stagger. Jo-An grabbed me as I fell, his
hands seeming real enough, strong and solid, smelling of the
tannery. Earth and sky turned around me and black spots darkened
my sight. He lowered me to the ground and pushed my head
between my knees. Something was roaring in my ears, deafening
me. I crouched like that, his hands holding my head, until the
roaring lessened and the dark receded from my vision. I stared at
the ground. The grass was rimed by frost, and tiny particles of
black ice lay between each stone. The wind howled in the cedars.
Apart from that, the only sound was my teeth chattering.

Jo-An spoke. There was no doubt; it was his voice. “Forgive me,
lord. I startled you. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

“They told me you were dead. I didn’t know if you were a living
being or a ghost.”

“Well, I might have died for a while,” he whispered. “Arai’s men
thought so and threw my body out in the marshland. But the Secret
God had other plans for me and sent me back to this world. My
work here is not yet done.”

I lifted my head carefully and looked at him. He had a new scar, not
long healed, from nose to ear, and several teeth missing. I took his
wrist and brought his hand round so I could see it. The nails were
gone, the fingers clubbed and twisted.

“I should be asking your forgiveness,” I said, sickened.

“Nothing happens to us that is not planned by God,” he replied.

I wondered why any god’s plans had to include torture, but I did not
say this to Jo-An. Instead I asked, “How did you find me?”

“The boatman came to me and told me he had ferried someone he
thought was you across the river. I’ve been waiting for word of you.
I knew you would come back.” He took up the bundle he’d placed
by the side of the road and began to untie it. “The prophecy has to
be fulfilled, after all.”

“What prophecy?” I remembered that Kenji’s wife had called him
the lunatic.

He didn’t answer. He took two small millet cakes from the cloth,
prayed over them, and gave one to me.

“You are always feeding me,” I said. “I don’t think I can eat.”

“Drink, then,” Jo-An said and handed me a rough bamboo flask. I
wasn’t sure about drinking, either, but I thought it might warm me.
As soon as the liquor hit my stomach the darkness came roaring
back, and I vomited several times so hard I was racked by violent
shuddering.

Jo-An clicked his tongue as you would to a horse or an ox. He had
the patient touch of a man used to dealing with animals, though of
course he dealt with them at the moment of their death and then,
afterward, flayed their corpses. When I could speak again I said
through chattering teeth, “I must keep moving.”

“Where are you heading?” he asked.

“Terayama. I’ll spend the winter there.”

“Well,” he said, and fell into one of his familiar silences. He was
praying, listening to some inner voice that would tell him what to do.
“It’s good,” he said finally. “We’ll go over the mountain. If you go by
road they’ll stop you at the barrier, and anyway it will take too long; it
will snow before you get to Yamagata.”

“Over the mountain?” I looked up at the jagged peaks that
stretched away to the northeast. The road fromTsuwano to
Yamagata skirted around their foot, but Terayama itself lay directly
behind them. Around the range the clouds hung low and gray, with
the dull damp sheen that presages snow.

“It’s a steep climb,” Jo-An said. “You must rest a little before you
attempt it.”

I began to think about getting to my feet. “I don’t have time. I must
get to the temple before it snows.”

Jo-An looked up at the sky and sniffed the wind. “It will be too cold
to snow tonight, but it could well start tomorrow. We’ll ask the
Secret One to hold it back.”

He stood and helped me up. “Can you walk now? It’s not far back
to the place I live. You can rest there, then I’ll take you to the men
who will show you the way over the mountains.”

I felt faint, as though my body had lost its substance, almost as
though I’d split myself and somehow gone with my image. I was
thankful for the Tribe training that had taught me to find those
reserves of strength of which most men are unaware. Slowly as I
concentrated my breathing I felt some energy and toughness
return. Jo-An no doubt attributed my recovery to the power of his
prayers. He regarded me for a moment with his deep-sunk eyes,
then turned with a flicker of a smile and began to walk back the way
we had come.

I hesitated for a moment, partly because I hated the thought of
retracing my steps, losing the ground it had cost me so much to
cover, but also because I recoiled from going with the outcast. It
was one thing to talk with him at night, alone, quite another to walk
close to him, to be seen in his company. I reminded myself that I
was not yet an Otori lord, and no longer one of the Tribe, that Jo-
An was offering me help and shelter, but my skin crawled as I
followed him.

After walking for less than an hour we turned off the road onto a
smaller path that followed the banks of a narrow river, through a
couple of miserable villages. Children ran out to beg for food, but
they backed away when they recognized the outcast. In the second
village two older boys were bold enough to throw stones. One of
them nearly struck me on the back—I heard the blow coming in
time to step aside—and I was going to go back and punish the
brat, but Jo-An restrained me.

Long before we reached it I could smell the tannery. The river
widened and eventually flowed into the main channel. At the
confluence stood the rows of wooden frames, skins stretched on
them. Here in this damp sheltered spot they were protected from
frost, but as winter’s bite strengthened they would be taken down
and stored till spring. Men were already at work, all outcasts of
course, half-naked despite the cold, all as skeletally thin as Jo-An
and with the same beaten look like mistreated dogs. Mist hung on
the river, mingled with smoke from charcoal fires. A floating bridge,
made of reeds and bamboo lashed together with cords, had been
constructed across the river. I remembered Jo-An telling me to
come to the outcasts’ bridge if I ever needed help. Now some fate
had brought me here; he would say the power of the Secret God,
no doubt.

On the far side of the frames a few small wooden huts had been
erected. They looked as if one strong wind would flatten them. As I
followed Jo-An to the threshold of the nearest one, the men
continued their work, but I was aware of their gaze. Each one
looked at me with a kind of intense entreaty, as though I meant
something to them and could help them in some way.

Trying to mask my reluctance, I stepped inside, not needing to
remove my shoes as the floor was earthen. A small fire burned in
the hearth. The air was thick with smoke, making my eyes sting.
There was one other person inside, huddled in the corner, under a
pile of hides. I thought it was Jo-An’s wife until he came forward on
his knees and bowed his head to the dirt before me. It was the
man who had ferried me across the river.

“He walked most of the night to tell me he’d seen you,” Jo-An said
apologetically. “He needed to rest a little before returning.”

I was aware of the sacrifice it entailed, not only the lonely walk
through the goblin-haunted darkness, but the danger from robbers
and patrols and the loss of a day’s fees.

“Why did he do this for me?”

The boatman sat up then, raising his eyes and looking briefly at
me. He said nothing, but the look he gave me was the same one
I’d seen in the gaze of the tannery workers, a look of passion and
hunger. I had seen it before, months earlier, on the faces of
people as we rode back fromTerayama to Yamagata, the look they
threw out like an appeal to Shigeru. They had found in Shigeru the
promise of something—justice, compassion—and now these men
looked for the same thins in me. Whatever Jo-An had told them
about me had transformed me into their hope.

And something in me responded to this, just as it had to the
villagers, to the farmers with their hidden fields. They were treated
like dogs, beaten and starved, but I saw them as men, with the
brains and hearts of men, no less than any warrior or merchant. I
had been brought up among people like them and been taught that
the Secret God saw them all with equal eyes. No matter what I
became, no matter what other teaching I received from the Otori or
the Tribe—despite my own reluctance, even—it was impossible for
me to forget this.

Jo-An said, “He is your man now. As I am—as we all are. You only
have to call on us.” He grinned, his broken teeth flashing in the dim
light. He had made tea and handed me a small wooden bowl. I felt
the steam rise against my face. The tea was made from twigs,
such as we used to drink in Mmo.

“Why should I call on you? What I’m going to need is an army!” I
drank and felt the warmth begin to spread through me.

“Yes, an army,” Jo-An replied. “Many battles lie ahead of you. The
prophecy says it.”

“How can you help me, then? It is forbidden for you to kill.”

“Warriors will kill,” Jo-An replied, “but there are many things they
won’t do that are equally necessary—things they consider be-
neath them: building, slaughtering, burying. You’ll realize it when
you need us.“

The tea settled my stomach. Jo-An brought out two more small
millet balls, but I had no appetite and made the boatman eat my
share. Jo-An did not eat, either, but put the second ball away again.
I saw the other man’s eyes follow it and gave him some coins
before he left. He did not want to take them, but I pressed them
into his hand.

Jo-An mumbled the blessing of departure over him and then pulled
aside the hides so I could take his place under them. The warmth
of the tea stayed with me. The hides stank, but they kept out the
cold and muffled sound. I thought briefly how any one of those
starving men might betray me for a bowl of soup, but I had no
alternative now: I had to trust Jo-An. I let the darkness fall over me
and take me down into sleep.

He woke me a few hours later. It was well after noon. He gave me
tea, hardly more than hot water, and apologized for having no food
to offer me.

“We should leave now,” he said, “if we are to get to the charcoal
burners before dark.”

“The charcoal burners?” I usually woke swiftly, but this day I was
groggy with sleep.

“They are still on the mountain. They have paths they use through
the forest that will take you over the border. But they will leave with
the first snow.” He paused for a moment and then said, “We have
to speak to someone on the way.”

“Who?”

“It won’t take long.” He gave me one of his slight smiles. We went
outside and I knelt by the riverbank and splashed water on my
face. It was icy; as Jo-An had predicted, the temperature had
dropped and the air was drier. It was too cold and too dry to snow.

I shook the water from my hands while he spoke to the men. Their
eyes flickered toward me. When we left, they stopped work and
knelt with bowed heads as I walked past.

“They know who I am?” I asked Jo-An in a low voice. Again, I
feared betrayal from these men who had so little.

“They know you are Otori Takeo,” he replied, “the angel of Yam-
agata who will bring justice and peace. That’s what the prophecy
says.”

“What prophecy?” I asked again. He said, “You will hear it for
yourself.”

I was filled with misgivings. What was I doing, entrusting my life to
this lunatic? I felt every extra moment wasted would keep me from
reaching Terayama before either the snow or the Tribe caught up
with me. But I realized now that my only hope was to go over the
mountain. I had to follow Jo-An.

We crossed the smaller river a little way upstream by a fish weir.
We passed few people, a couple of fishermen, and some girls
taking food to the men who were burning rice stalks and spreading
dung on the empty fields. The girls climbed up the bank rather than
cross our path, and one of the fisherman spat at us. The other
cursed Jo-An for blighting the water. I kept my head low and my
face averted, but they paid no attention to me. In fact they avoided
looking at us directly, as though even that contact would bring
pollution and bad luck.

Jo-An seemed to take no notice of the hostility, retreating into
himself as if into a dark cloak, but when we had passed them he
said, “They would not allow us to use the wooden bridge to take
the hides across. That’s why we had to learn to build our own. Now
the other bridge is destroyed, but they still refuse to use ours.” He
shook his head and whispered, “If only they knew the Secret One.”

On the other bank we followed the river for another mile and then
turned off toward the northeast and began to climb. The bare-
branched maples and beeches gave way to pines and cedars. As
the forest deepened, the path darkened and grew steeper and
steeper until we were clambering over rocks and boulders, going
as often on all fours as upright. The sleep had refreshed me and I
could feel strength returning. Jo-An climbed tirelessly, hardly even
panting. It was hard to guess his age. Poverty and suffering had
hollowed him out so he looked like an old man, but he might have
been no more than thirty. There was something unearthly about
him, as though he had indeed returned from the dead.

We finally came over a crest and stood on a small plateau. A huge
rock lay across it, fallen from the crag above. Below us I could see
the glint of the river, almost as far as Tsuwano. Smoke and mist
drifted across the valley. The clouds were low, hiding the mountain
range on the opposite side. The climb had warmed us, even made
us sweat, but when we stopped our breath came white on the raw
air. A few late berries still glowed red on leafless bushes;
otherwise there was no color anywhere. Even the evergreen trees
were muted almost to black. I could hear water trickling, and two
crows were calling to each other from the crag. When they fell
silent I heard someone breathing.

The sound came, slow and measured, from the rock itself. I
slowed my own breathing, touched Jo-An on the arm, and made a
gesture with my head toward it.

He gave me a smile and spoke quietly: “It’s all right. This is who we
have come to see.”

The crows cawed again, their voices harsh and ominous. I began
to shiver. The cold was creeping up on me, surrounding me. The
fears of the previous night threatened to surface again. I wanted to
keep moving. I did not want to meet whoever was concealed
behind the rock, breathing so slowly they could hardly be human.

“Come,” Jo-An said, and I followed him round the edge of the

rock, keeping my eyes away from the drop below. Behind, a cave
was hollowed out of the side of the mountain. Water dripped from
its roof. Over the centuries it had formed spears and columns and
worn out a channel on the ground that led to a small deep pool, its
sides as regular as a cistern and limestone-white. The water itself
was black.

The roof of the cave sloped, following the shape of the mountain,
and in the upper, drier side sat a figure that I would have thought
was a statue if I had not heard its breathing. It was grayish white,
like the limestone, as though it had sat there so long it had started
to calcify. It was hard to tell if it was male or female; I recognized it
as one of those ancient people, a hermit, a monk or nun, who had
gone beyond sex and gender and grown so close to the next world
he or she was almost pure spirit. The hair fell like a white shawl, the
face and hands gray like old paper.

The figure sat in meditation on the floor of the cave with no sign of
strain or discomfort. In front of it was a kind of stone altar bearing
fading flowers, the last of the autumn lilies, and other offerings: two
bitter oranges, their skins wrinkling, a small piece of fabric, and
some coins of little value. It was like any other shrine to the god of
the mountain, except carved into the stone was the sign the Hidden
use, the one Lady Maruyama had traced on my hand in Chigawa so
long ago.

Jo-An untied his cloth and took out the last millet cake. He knelt
and placed it carefully on the altar, then bowed his head to the
ground. The figure opened its eyes and gazed on us—gazed but
did not see. The eyes were clouded with blindness. An expression
came over the face that made me drop to my knees and bow
before it—a look of profound tenderness and compassion,
blended with complete knowledge. I had no doubt I was in the
presence of a holy being.

“Tomasu,” it said, and I thought its voice a woman’s rather than a
man’s. It was so long since anyone had called me by the water
name my mother gave me that the hair on the back of my neck
stood up, and when I shivered it was not only from cold.

“Sit up,” she said. “I have words to say that you are to hear. You
are Tomasu of Mino, but you have become both Otori and Kikuta.
Three bloods are mixed in you. You were born into the Hidden, but
your life has been brought into the open and is no longer your own.
Earth will deliver what heaven desires.”

She fell silent. The minutes passed. The cold entered my bones. I
wondered if she would say anything else. At first I was amazed that
she knew who I was; then I thought Jo-An must have told her about
me. If this was the prophecy, it was so obscure that it meant
nothing to me. If I knelt there much longer I thought I would freeze
to death, but I was held by the force of the blind woman’s eyes.

I listened to the breath of the three of us and to the sounds of the
mountain, the crows still cawing in their harsh voices, the cedars
restless in the northeast wind, the trickle and drip of water, the
groaning of the mountain itself as the temperature dropped and the
rocks shrank.

“Your lands will stretch from sea to sea,” she said finally. “But
peace comes at the price of bloodshed. Five battles will buy you
peace, four to win and one to lose. Many must die, but you yourself
are safe from death, except at the hands of your own son.”

Another long silence followed. With every second the light
darkened toward evening and the air chilled. My gaze wandered
round the cave. At the holy woman’s side stood a prayer wheel on
a small wooden block carved with lotus leaves around its edge. I
was puzzled. I knew many mountain shrines were forbidden to
women, and none I had ever seen had contained such a mixture of
symbols, as though the
Secret God, the Enlightened One, and the spirits of the mountain
all dwelled here together.

She spoke as if she saw my thoughts; her voice held a kind of
laughter mixed with wonder. “It is all one. Keep this in your heart. It
is all one.”

She touched the prayer wheel and set it turning. Its rhythm seemed
to steal into my veins to join my blood. She began to chant softly,
words I had never heard before and did not understand. They
flowed over and around us, eventually fading into the wind. When
we heard them again they had become the farewell blessing of the
Hidden. She handed us a bowl and told us to drink from the pool
before we left.

A thin layer of ice was already forming on the surface, and the
water was so cold it bit into my teeth. Jo-An wasted no time but led
me quickly away, glancing anxiously toward the north. Before we
went back over the crest I took one last look at the holy woman.
She sat motionless; from this distance she seemed like part of the
rock. I could not believe she would stay out here alone all night.

“How does she survive?” I questioned Jo-An. “She’ll die of cold.”
He frowned. “She is sustained by God. It does not matter to her if
she dies.”

“She is like you, then?”

“She is a holy person. Once I thought she was an angel, but she is
a human being, transformed by the power of God.”

He did not want to talk more. He seemed to have caught my
urgency. We descended at a rapid pace until we came to a small
rockfall, which we clambered over. On the other side was a narrow
path made by men walking single file into the dark forest. Once on
the path we began to climb again.

Fallen leaves and pine needles muffled our footsteps. Beneath the
trees it was almost night. Jo-An went faster still. The pace warmed
me a little, but my feet and legs seemed to be slowly turning to
stone, as if the limy water I’d drunk were calcifying me. And my
heart was chilled, too, by the old woman’s baffling words and all
that they implied for my future. I had never fought in a battle: Was I
really to wage five of them? If bloodshed was the price of peace,
in five battles it would be a heavy cost indeed. And the idea that my
own son, not yet even born, would be the one to kill me filled me
with unbearable sadness.

I caught up with Jo-An and touched him on the arm. “What does it
mean?”

“It means what it says,” he replied, slowing a little to catch his
breath.

“Did she say the same words to you earlier?” 1 he same.

“When was it?”

“After I died and came back to life. I wanted to live like her, a
hermit on the mountain. I thought I might be her servant, her
disciple. But she said my work in the world was not yet finished,
and she spoke the words about you.”

“You told her who I was, my past life and everything?”

“No,” he said patiently. “There was no need to tell her, for she
already knew. She said I must serve you, because only you will
bring peace.”

“Peace?” I repeated. Was this what she meant by heaven’s
desire? I wasn’t even sure what the word signified. The very idea
of peace seemed like one of the fantasies of the Hidden, the
stories of the kingdom that my mother would whisper to me at
night. Would it ever be possible to stop the clans from fighting?
The whole warrior class fought: It was what they were bred and
trained and lived for. Apart from their traditions and personal sense
of honor, there was the constant need for land to maintain armies
to gain more land, the military codes and shifting webs of alliances,
the overweening ambition of warlords like Iida Sadamu, and now,
more than likely, Arai Daüchi. “Peace through war?”

“Is there any other way?” Jo-An replied. “There will be battles.”
Four to win, one to lose…

“That is why we are preparing now. You noticed the men at the
tannery, saw their eyes. Ever since your merciful actions at
Yamagata Castle, when you put an end to the sufferings of the
tortured Hidden, you have been a hero to these people. Then your
service to Lord Shigeru at Inuyama… even without the prophecy
they would have been ready to fight for you. Now they know God is
with you.”

“She sits in a mountain shrine and uses a prayer wheel,” I said.
“Yet, she blessed us after the fashion of your people.” “Our
people,” he corrected me.

I shook my head. “I no longer follow those teachings. I have killed
many times. Do you really believe she speaks the words of your
god?” For the Hidden teach that the Secret God is the only true
one, and the spirits that everyone else worships are delusions.

“I don’t know why God tells me to listen to her,” he admitted. “But
he does, and so I do.”

He is mad, I thought. The torture and the fear have driven him out
of his mind. “She said, ‘It is all one.’ But you don’t believe that,
surely?”

He whispered, “I believe all the teachings of the Secret One. I
have followed them since childhood. I know them to be true. But it
seems to me there is a place beyond the teachings, a place
beyond words, where that could be the truth, where all the beliefs
are seen to issue from the one source. My brother was a priest; he
would have said this was heresy. I have not been to this place yet,
but it is where she dwells.”

I was silent, thinking about how his words applied to myself. I could
feel the three elements that made up my nature coiled within me
like three separate snakes, each one deadly to the others if it were
allowed to strike. I could never live one life without denying two-
thirds of myself. My only way was to go forward, to transcend the
divisions and find a means of uniting them.

“And you also,” Jo-An added, reading my thoughts.

“It is what I would like to believe,” I said finally. “But whereas for
her it is a place of deepest spirituality, I am perhaps more practical.
To me it just seems to make sense.”

“So you are the one who will bring peace.”

I did not want to believe this prophecy. It was both far more and far
less than I wanted for my own life. But the old woman’s words had
fallen into my inner being, and I could not get rid of them.

“The men at the tannery, your men, they won’t fight, will they?”

“Some will,” Jo-An said.

“Do they know how to?”

“They can be taught. And there are many other things they can do:
building, transport, guiding you over secret paths.”

“Like this one?”

“Yes, the charcoal burners made this one. They conceal the
entrances with rock piles. They have ways over the whole
mountain.”

Farmers, outcasts, charcoal burners—none of them was supposed
to carry weapons or join in the wars of the clans. I wondered how
many others were like the farmer I had killed at Matsue, or Jo-An.
What a waste of their courage and intelligence not to use men like
that. If I were to train and arm them, I would have all the men I
needed. But would warriors fight alongside them? Or would they
just consider me an outcast too?

I was occupied with these thoughts when I caught the whiff of
burning and a few moments later heard the distant sound of
voices, and other noises of human activity, the thud of an ax, the
crackle of fire. Jo-An noticed as I swung my head. “You hear them
already?”

I nodded, listening, counting how many there were. Four from the
voices, I thought; maybe another who did not speak but who
moved with a distinctive tread; no dogs, which seemed unusual.
“You know I am half Kikuta, from the Tribe. I have many of their
talents.”

He couldn’t help flinching slightly. These talents seem like
witchcraft to the Hidden. My own father had renounced all his Tribe
skills when he had converted to the beliefs of the Hidden; he had
died because he had taken their vow never to kill again. “I know it,”
Jo-An replied.

“I’ll need all of them if I’m to do what you expect of me.”

“The Tribe are children of the Devil,” he muttered, adding quickly
as he had once before, “But your case is different, lord.”

It made me realize the risks he was taking for me, not only from
human forces, but from supernatural ones. My Tribe blood must
have made me as dangerous in his mind as a goblin or a river
spirit. I was amazed again at the strength of the convictions that
drove him and at how completely he had placed himself in my
hands.

The smell of burning grew stronger. Flecks of ash were settling on
our clothes and skin, reminding me ominously of snow. The ground
took on a grayish look. The path led into a clearing between the
trees where there were several charcoal ovens, banked over with
damp soil and turf. Only one still burned, patches of red glowing
from its crevices. Three men were engaged in dismantling the cold
ovens and
bundling the charcoal. Another knelt by a cooking fire where a
kettle hung steaming from a three-legged stand. Four, yet I still felt
there had been five. I heard a heavy footfall behind me, and the
involuntary intake of breath that precedes an attack. I pushed Jo-
An aside and leaped round to face whoever it was trying to ambush
us.

He was the largest man I had ever seen, arms already stretched
out to seize us. One huge hand, one stump. Because of the stump
I hesitated to wound him more. Leaving my image on the path, I
slipped behind him and called to him to turn round, holding the
knife where he could see the blade clearly and threatening to cut
his throat.

Jo-An was shouting, “It’s me, you blockhead! It’s Jo-An!”

The man by the fire let out a great shout of laughter and the char-
coal burners came running.

“Don’t hurt him, sir,” they called to me. “He doesn’t mean any harm.
You surprised him, that’s all.”

The giant had lowered his arms and stood with his one hand held
out in a gesture of submission.

“He’s mute,” Jo-An told me. “But even with one hand he’s as
strong as two oxen, and he’s a hard worker.”

The charcoal burners were clearly worried I was going to punish
one of their greatest assets. They threw themselves at my feet,
begging for mercy. I told them to get up and keep their giant under
control.

“I could have killed him!”

They all got up, said the words of welcome, clapped Jo-An on the
shoulder, bowed again to me, and made me sit down by the fire.
One of them poured tea from the kettle. I had no idea what it was
made from; it tasted unlike anything I’d ever had before, but it was
hot. Jo-An took them to one side and they had a huddled
whispered conversation, of which I could hear every word.

Jo-An told them who I was, which produced gasps and more bow-
ing, and that I had to get to Terayama as soon as possible. The
group argued a little about the safest route and whether to start
right away or wait till morning, then they came back to the fire, sat in
a circle, and stared at me, their eyes glowing in their dark faces.
They were covered in soot and ash, barely clothed, yet not noticing
the cold. They spoke as a group and seemed to think and feel as
one. I imagined that here in the forest they followed their own rules,
living like wild men, almost like animals.

“They’ve never spoken to a lord before,” Jo-An said. “One of them
wants to know if you are the hero Yoshitsune, returned from the
mainland. I told them that though you wander the mountains like
Yoshitsune and are pursued by all men, you will be an even greater
hero, for he failed but you are promised success by God.”

“Will the lord allow us to cut wood where we please?” one of the
older men asked. They did not speak to me directly but addressed
all their remarks to Jo-An. “There are many parts of the forest
where we are no longer allowed to go. If we cut a tree there…” He
made a graphic gesture of slicing his own neck.

“A head for a tree, a hand for a branch,” said another. He reached
over to the giant and held up the mutilated arm. The stump had
healed over with a puckered, livid scar, traces of gray running back
up the limb where it had been cauterized. “Tohan clan officials did
this to him a couple of years ago. He didn’t understand, but they
still took his hand.”

The giant held it out to me, nodding several times, his face
bewildered and sorrowful.

I knew the Otori clan also had laws forbidding indiscriminate felling
of trees: It was to protect the forests forever, but I did not think
they enforced such harsh penalties. I wondered what was the point
of half crippling a man; was a human life really worth less than a
tree’s?

“Lord Otori will reclaim all these lands,” Jo-An said. “He will rule
from sea to sea. He will bring justice.”

They bowed again, swearing that they would serve me, and I
promised I would do all I could for them when that day came. Then
they fed us—meat: small birds they had caught and a hare. I ate
meat so rarely I could not remember when I had last tasted it, apart
from the wrestlers’ chicken stew. That flesh, however, had been
bland compared to the hare. They’d trapped it a week ago, saving
it for their final night on the mountain, burying it out of the sight of
any clan official who might come prying round the camp. It tasted
of the earth and of blood.

While we ate they discussed their plans for the following day. They
decided one of them would show me the way to the border. They
did not dare cross it themselves, but the way down the mountain to
Terayama was plain enough, they thought. We would leave at first
light and it should take me no more than twelve hours, if the snow
held off.

The wind had shifted slightly to the north, and it held a threatening
rawness. They had already planned to dismantle the last oven that
evening and begin the trek down the mountain the following day.
Jo-An could help them if he stayed overnight, standing in for the
man who would be my guide.

“They don’t object to working with you?” I said to Jo-An later. I was
puzzled by the charcoal burners. They ate meat, so they did not
follow the teachings of the Enlightened One, they did not pray over
their food in the manner of the Hidden, and they accepted the
outcast to eat and work alongside, quite unlike the villagers.

“They are also outcasts,” he replied. “They burn corpses as well as
wood. But they are not of the Hidden. They worship the spirits of
the forest, in particular the god of fire. They believe he will travel
down the mountain with them tomorrow and dwell with them all
winter, keeping their houses warm. In the spring they accompany
him back to the mountain.” Jo-An’s voice held a note of
disapproval. “I try to tell them about the Secret God,” he said. “But
they say they cannot leave their ancestors’ god, for who then would
light the fire for the ovens?”

“Maybe it’s all one,” I said, teasing him a little, for the meat and the
warmth that the fire god provided had raised my spirits.

He gave me one of his slight smiles but said no more on the sub-
ject. He looked suddenly exhausted. The light was almost gone
and the charcoal burners invited us into their shelter. It was roughly
built from branches and covered with hides, which I guessed they
had swapped for charcoal with the tanners. We crawled in with
them, all huddled together against the cold. My head, closest to the
oven, was warm enough, but my back was icy, and when I turned
over I thought my eyelids would freeze shut.

I did not sleep much but lay listening to the deep breathing of the
men around me, thinking about my future. I had thought I had
placed myself under the death sentence of the Tribe, each day
hardly expecting to be still alive at nightfall, but the prophetess had
given me back my life. My own skills had developed relatively late:
some of the boys I had trained with in Matsue were already
showing signs of talent as young as eight or nine. How old would
my son be? How long would it be before he was skilled enough to
confront me? Maybe as much as sixteen years; it was nearly my
entire lifetime. This bald calculation gave me some bitter hope.

Sometimes I believed in the prophecy and sometimes I did not,
and so it has been all my life.

Tomorrow I would be at Terayama. I would have Shigeru’s records
of the Tribe, I would hold Jato in my hands again. In the spring I
would approach Arai. Armed with my secret information on the
Tribe, I would seek his support against Shigeru’s uncles. For it was
obvious to me that my first encounter must be with them. Avenging
Shigeru’s death and taking up my inheritance would give me what I
most needed, a power base in impregnable Hagi.

Jo-An slept restlessly, twitching and whimpering. I realized he was
probably always in pain, yet awake he gave no sign of it. Toward
dawn the cold eased a little and I slept deeply for about an hour,
only to wake with a soft, feathery sound filling my ears, the sound I
dreaded. I crawled to the entrance of the shelter. In the firelight I
could see the flakes beginning to fall, could hear the tiny hiss as
they melted on the embers. I shook Jo-An and woke the charcoal
burners. It's snowing!

They leaped up, lit branches for torches, and began to pack up
their camp. They had no more desire to be trapped on the
mountain than I did. The precious charcoal from the last oven was
wrapped in the damp hides off the shelter. They prayed quickly
over the embers of the fire and placed them in an iron pot to be
carried with them down the mountain.

The snow was still fine and powdery, mostly not settling but melting
as soon as it touched the ground. However, as dawn came we
could see that the sky was gray and ominous, the clouds full of
more snow to come. The wind was picking up, too; when the
heavier snow did start to fall, it would be as a blizzard.

There was no time to eat, no time even for tea. Once all the
charcoal was ready, the men were eager to get away. Jo-An
dropped to his knees before me, but I raised him up and
embraced him. His frame in my arms was as bony and frail as an
old man’s.

“We will meet again in the spring,” I said. “I will send word to you at
the outcasts’ bridge.”

He nodded, suddenly overcome with emotion, as though he could
not bear to let me out of his sight. One of the men raised a bundle
and placed it across his shoulders. The others were already filing
down the slope. Jo-An made a clumsy gesture to me, a cross
between a farewell and a blessing. Then he turned and, stumbling
a little under the weight of the burden, walked away.

I watched him for a moment, finding myself repeating under my
breath the familiar words the Hidden use when they part.

“Come, lord,” my guide called to me anxiously, and I turned and
followed him up the slope.

We climbed for what must have been nearly three hours. My guide
paused only to bend twigs now and then to mark the path back.
The snow stayed the same, light and dry, but the higher we
climbed, the more it settled, until ground and trees all had a thin
powdering of white. The rapid climb warmed me, but my stomach
was growling with hunger. The meat the night before had given it
false expectations. It was impossible to guess the hour. The sky
was a uniform brownish gray, and the ground was beginning to give
off the strange, disorienting light of a snowy landscape.

When my guide stopped we were halfway up the main peak of the
mountain range. The path we’d been following now twisted away
downward. I could see the valley below through the veil of falling
flakes, the massive branches of the beeches and cedars already
turning white.

“Can’t go any farther with you,” he said. “Want my advice, you turn
back with me now. Blizzard’s coming. Best part of a day’s walk to
the temple, even in fair weather. You go on, you perish in the
snow.”

“It’s impossible for me to go back,” I replied. “Come a little farther
with me. I’ll pay you well for it.” But I could not persuade him, nor
did I really want to. He seemed uneasy and lonely without his fel-
lows. I gave him half the coins I had left anyway, and in return he
gave me a leg bone from the hare with a fair bit of meat still
attached to it.

He described the path I had to take, pointing out the landmarks
across the valley as best he could in the dim light. A river ran
through it, he told me, not knowing I’d already heard it long before.
This marked the fief boundary. There was no bridge, but at one
point it was narrow enough to jump across. The pools beneath held
water spirits and the current was swift, so I must be careful not to
fall in. Also, as this was the easiest place to cross, sometimes it
was patrolled, though he did not think that was likely on such a day
as this.

Once into the next fief, I was to continue in an easterly direction,
descending toward a small shrine. Here the paths forked. I must
take the right-hand, lower path. I had to keep going east, otherwise
I would find myself climbing the mountain range. The wind was
from the northeast now, so I had to keep it against my left
shoulder. He touched my shoulder twice to emphasize this,
peering into my face with his narrow eyes.

“You don’t look like a lord,” he said, his features twisting in a sort of
smile. “But good luck to you anyway.”

I thanked him and set off down the slope, gnawing the bone as I
went, cracking it open with my teeth and sucking out the marrow.
The snow became slightly wetter and denser, melting more slowly
on my head and clothes. The man was right: I did not look like a
lord. My hair, which had not been cut since Yuki had clipped it in the
style of an actor, hung shaggy round my ears, and I had not shaved
for days. My clothes were soaked and filthy. I certainly did not
smell like a lord. I tried to remember when I’d last had a bath—and
suddenly recalled the wrestlers’ stable, our first night out from
Matsue: the vast bathhouse, the conversation I’d overheard
between Akio and Hajime.

I wondered where Yuki was now, if she had heard of my defection.
I could hardly bear to think about the child. In the light of the
prophecy, the idea of my son being kept from me and taught to
hate me had become even more painful. I remembered Akio’s
taunt; it seemed the Kikuta knew my character better than I knew it
myself.

The noise of the river grew louder, almost the only sound in the
snow-filled landscape. Even the crows were silent. The snow was
starting to cap the boulders along the water’s edge as I came
within sight of it. It fell from the mountain some distance upstream
in a waterfall, then spread wide between steep crags, tumbling
over rocks in a series of rapids before being forced into a narrow
channel between two flat outcrops. Ancient, twisted pines clung to
the sides of the crags, and the whole landscape, whitened out by
the snow, looked as if it were waiting for Sesshu to come and paint
it.

I crouched down behind a boulder where a small pine clung
precariously to the thin soil. It was more of a bush than a tree, and
it gave me a little shelter. The snow was covering the path, but it
was easy enough to see where it led and where to jump across the
river. I looked at the crossing for a while, listening intently.

The pattern of the water over the rocks was not quite constant.
Every now and then a lull appeared, bringing an uncanny silence,
as though I were not the only creature listening. It was easy to
imagine spirits dwelling beneath the water, stopping and starting
the flow, teasing and provoking humans, luring them to the edge.

I thought I could even hear them breathing. Then, just as I’d
isolated the sound, the ripple and babble of the river started up
again. It was infuriating. I knew I was wasting time, crouched in a
bush being gradually covered by snow, listening to spirits, but
slowly the conviction grew that there was someone breathing, not
all that far from me.

Just beyond the narrow crossing, the river dropped another ten
feet or so into a series of deep pools. I caught a sudden
movement and realized a heron, almost completely white, was
fishing in one of them, oblivious to the snow. It was like a sign—the
Otori emblem on the boundary of the Otori fief—perhaps a
message from Shigeru that I had made the right choice at last.

The heron was on the same side of the river as I was, working its
way along the pool toward me. I wondered what it found to eat in
midwinter, when frogs and toads were hidden away in the mud. It
seemed tranquil and unafraid, certain that nothing threatened it in
this lonely place. As I watched it, feeling as safe as it did, thinking
that at any moment I would walk to the river and jump across,
something startled it. It swung its long head toward the shore and
instantly launched itself into flight. The clack of its wings sounded
once above the water and then it disappeared silently downstream.

What had it seen? I strained my eyes, staring at the same spot.
The river fell silent for a moment, and I heard the breathing. I flared
my nostrils and on the northeasterly wind caught a faint, human
scent. I could see no one; yet, I knew someone was there, lying
invisible in the snow.

He was so placed that if I went directly to the crossing, he could
easily cut me off. If he could maintain invisibility for as long as he
had, he had to be from the Tribe, and so might be able to see me
as soon as I approached the river. My only hope was to take him
by surprise and jump farther upstream, where the crossing was
wider.

There was no point in waiting any longer. I took a deep, silent
breath and ran out from the cover of the pine tree and down the
slope. I kept to the path as long as I could, not sure of the footing
beneath the snow. As I broke away from it toward the river I looked
sideways and saw my enemy rise up out of the snow. He was
dressed entirely in white. I felt a moment of relief that he had not
been invisible, merely camouflaged—maybe he was not from the
Tribe; maybe he was just a border guard—then the dark chasm
loomed beneath me and I jumped.

The river roared and fell silent, and in the silence I heard
something spinning through the air behind me. As I landed I threw
myself to the ground, scrabbling on the icy rock, almost losing my
grip. The flying object whistled over my head. If I’d been standing it
would have caught me in the back of the neck. Before me lay the
star-shaped hole it had made in the snow. Only the Tribe use such
throwing knives, and they usually use several, one after the other.

I rolled, pulled myself to safety, still keeping low, and went invisible
at once. I knew I could maintain invisibility until I reached the
shelter of the forest, but I did not know if he could see me or not
and I forgot about the tracks I would leave in the snow. Luckily for
me, he also slipped as he leaped across the river, and while he
looked bigger and heavier than me and could probably run faster, I
had a head start on him.

Under the cover of the trees I split myself and sent the image
sideways up the slope while I ran on down the path, knowing that I
could not outrun him for long, that my only hope was to ambush
him somehow. Ahead, the path curved round a large rocky outcrop;
a tree branch hung above it. I ran round the corner, stepped back
in my own footprints, and sprang for the branch. I pulled myself up
onto it and took out my knife, wishing I had Jato. The other
weapons I carried were those with which I’d been meant to kill
Ichiro, garrote and neck spike. But the Tribe are hard to kill with
their own weapons, just as they are hard to outwit with their own
tricks. My best hope was the knife. I stilled my breathing, went
invisible, listened to him falter as he saw my second self, then
heard him run again.

I knew I would only have one chance. I dropped on him from
above. My weight unbalanced him, and as he stumbled I found a
gap in his neck protection and drove the knife into the main artery
of the throat, pulling it crossways through the windpipe as Kenji had
taught me. He made a grunt of amazement—one I’ve often heard
from Tribe members who don’t expect to have to play the part of
the victim—and the stumble turned into a fall. I slipped from him.
His hands went up to his throat, where the breath was whistling
noisily and the blood was spurting. Then he went down for good,
on his face, the blood turning the snow red.

I went through his clothes and took the rest of the knives and his
short sword, which was a particularly fine one. He had a selection
of poisons, which I also took, having none of my own at that time. I
had no idea who he was. I removed his gloves and looked at his
palms, but they did not bear the distinctive straight line of the
Kikuta, and as far as I could see he had no tattoos.

I left his body for the crows and foxes, thinking it would be a
welcome winter meal for them, and hurried on as quickly and as
silently as possible, fearing he might be one of a band watching
the river, waiting for me. The blood was racing through me; I was
warmed by my flight and the brief struggle, and I was deeply,
primitively glad it was not me lying dead in the snow.

I was slightly alarmed that the Tribe had caught up with me so
quickly and had known where I would be going. Had Akio’s body
been discovered, and messages sent already, by horse, from Hagi
to Yamagata? Or was Akio still alive? I cursed myself for not taking
the time to finish him off. Maybe the encounter should have
frightened me more, should have made me realize what it would be
like to be hunted by the Tribe for the rest of my life. I did realize it,
but I was enraged that they should try to kill me like a dog in the
forest and cheered by the fact that their first attempt had failed.
The Tribe might have managed to kill my father, but Kenji himself
had said no one would have been able to get near him if he had not
taken a vow never to kill again. I knew I had all his talents, maybe
even more. I would not let the Tribe near me. I would carry on
Shigeru’s work and break their power.

All these thoughts whirled through my mind as I slogged on
through the snow. They gave me energy and sharpened my
resolve to survive. After I’d finished with the Tribe, I turned my rage
against the Otori lords, whose treachery seemed even greater to
me. Warriors pretended that honor and loyalty were all-important to
them; yet, their deceptions and betrayals were as deep and as
self-serving as the Tribe’s. Shigeru’s uncles had sent him to his
death and were now trying to dispossess me. They did not know
what lay in store for them. If they could have seen me, knee-deep
in drifts of snow, ill-clad, ill-equipped, with no men, money, or land,
they would certainly have lost no sleep over any threat I posed
them.

I could not stop and rest. I had no alternative but to keep walking
until I reached Terayama or dropped in my tracks from exhaustion,
but every now and then I stepped off the path and listened for any
sound of pursuit. I heard nothing except the moan of the wind and
the soft hiss of the flakes as they fell, until, late in the day when the
light was beginning to fade, I thought I could hear snatches of
sound from below.

It was the last thing I would have expected to hear out on the
mountain as the forest filled with snow. It sounded like flute music,
as lonely as the wind in the pines, as fleeting as the flakes. It sent
shivers down my spine, not only from the usual effect music has on
me, but from a deeper fear. I believed I had come too close to the
edge of the world and was hearing spirits. I thought of the mountain
goblins who lure humans and keep them captive below the ground
for thousands of years. I wished I could form the prayers my
mother taught me, but my lips were frozen, and anyway, I no longer
believed in their power.

The music grew louder. I was approaching its source, but I could
not stop walking, as though it had enchanted me and was drawing
me toward itself. I rounded the corner and saw the path fork.
Immediately, I remembered what my guide had told me, and
indeed, there was the little shrine, just visible, three oranges placed
before it glowing bright beneath their caps of snow. Behind the
shrine was a small hut with wooden walls and a thatched roof. My
fears subsided at once and I almost laughed aloud. It was no
goblin I’d heard but some monk or hermit who had retreated to the
mountain to seek enlightenment.

Now I could smell smoke. The warmth drew me irresistibly. I could
imagine the coals drying my soaked feet, bringing them back from
the blocks of ice they’d turned into. I could almost feel the heat on
my face. The door of the hut was open to let light in and smoke
out. The flute player had neither heard nor seen me. He was lost in
the sorrowful, unearthly music.

Even before I saw him, I knew who he was. I had heard the same
music before, night after night as I grieved at Shigeru’s grave. It
was Makoto, the young monk who had comforted me. He sat
cross-legged, his eyes closed. He was playing the long bamboo
flute, but a smaller transverse flute lay on the cushion beside him.
A brazier burned smokily near the entrance. At the back of the hut
was a raised sleeping area. A wooden righting pole leaned against
the wall, but no other weapons were visible. I stepped in—even
with the brazier it was only slightly warmer than outside—and said
quietly, “Makoto?”

He did not open his eyes or stop playing.

I said his name again. The music faltered and he took the flute
from his lips. He spoke in a whisper, wearily: “Leave me alone.
Stop tormenting me. I am sorry. I am sorry.” He still did not look up.

As he took up the flute again I knelt before him and touched him on
the shoulder. He opened his eyes, looked at me, and, taking me
completely by surprise, leaped to his feet, throwing the flute aside.
He backed away from me, seized the pole, and held it out
threateningly. His eyes were filled with suffering, his face gaunt, as
though he had been fasting. “Stay away from me,” he said, his
voice low and hoarse.

I stood too. “Makoto,” I said gently, “it’s no enemy. It’s me: Otori
Takeo.“

I took a step toward him and he immediately swung the pole at my
shoulder. I saw it coming and deflected it a little, and luckily in the
small space he could not swing it hard or he would have broken my
collarbone. As it was, he knocked me to the ground. The shock
must have reverberated up to his hands, for he dropped the pole
and looked at them in astonishment and then at me on the floor.
“Takeo?” he said. “You’re real? It’s not your ghost?”

“Real enough to half knock out,” I said, getting up and flexing my
arm. Once I was sure nothing was broken, I reached inside my
clothes for my knife. I felt safer with it in my hand.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I would never hurt you. It’s just that I have
seen your apparition so often.” He looked as if he would reach out
to touch me, then drew back. “I can’t believe it’s you! What strange
fate brings you here at this hour?”

“I am going to Terayama. Twice I’ve been offered refuge there.
Now I need to accept that offer, until spring.”

“I can’t believe it’s you,” he repeated. “You’re soaked. You must be
freezing.” He looked round the tiny hut. “I have so little to offer
you.” He turned toward the sleeping area, tripped over the pole,
and bent to retrieve it. Placing it back against the wall, he took one
of the thin hempen quilts from the bed. “Take off your clothes.
We’ll dry them. Wrap yourself in this.”

“I must keep going,” I said. “I’ll just sit by the fire for a while.”

“You’ll never get to Terayama tonight. It will be dark in an hour, and
it’s still five hours’ walk. Spend the night here; we’ll go together in
the morning.”

“The blizzard will have closed the path by then,” I said. “I want to
be snowed in at the temple, not snowed out.”

“This is the first fall of the year,” he replied. “It’s heavy on the
mountain, but from here downward it is more sleet than snow.” He
smiled and quoted the old poem: “ ‘On nights when, rain mixing in,
the snow falls’… unfortunately, I am as poor as the poet and his
family!”

It was one of the first pieces Ichiro had taught me to write, and it
brought him to my mind with piercing clarity. I was beginning to
shiver violently. Now that I was no longer moving, I was indeed
freezing. I began to peel off the wet clothes. Makoto took them and
stretched them before the brazier, adding a little wood and blowing
up the embers.

“This looks like blood,” he said. “Are you hurt?”

“No. Someone tried to kill me at the border.”

“This blood is his, then?”

I nodded, not sure how much to tell him, for his safety as well as
my own.

“Is anyone following you?” he said.

“Either following me or lying in wait for me. That’s how it will be for
the rest of my life.”

“Will you tell me why?” He lit a taper from the fire and held it to the
wick of an oil lamp. The lamp spluttered reluctantly into life.

“There’s not much oil,” he apologized, and went to close the outer
shutters.

Night stretched before us. “Can I trust you?” I said.

The question made him laugh. “I have no idea what you’ve been
through since we last met, or what brings you to this place now.
And you know nothing about me. If you did, you would not need to
ask. I’ll tell you everything later. In the meantime, yes, you can trust
me. If you trust no one else, trust me.”

A note of deep emotion had crept into his voice. He turned away.
“I’ll warm some soup,” he said. “I’m sorry, I have neither wine nor
tea.”

I remembered how he had comforted me in my terrible grief after
Shigeru’s death. He had reassured me while I was racked by
remorse, and had held me until grief had given way to desire, and
both had been assuaged.

“I cannot stay with the Tribe,” I said. “I’ve left them, and they will
pursue me until they execute me.”

Makoto took a pot from the corner of the room and placed it
carefully over the embers. He looked toward me again.

“They wanted me to find the records Shigeru kept of them,” I said.
“They sent me to Hagi. I was supposed to kill Ichiro, my teacher,
and give the records to them. But of course they weren’t there.”

Makoto smiled but still said nothing.

“That is one of the reasons why I have to reach Terayama.
Because that’s where they are. You knew, didn’t you?”

“We would have told you if you had not already chosen to go with
the Tribe,” he said. “But our duty to Lord Shigeru meant we could
not take the risk. He entrusted the records to us, for he knew our
temple is one of the few in the Three Countries that has not been
infiltrated by Tribe members.”

He poured the soup into a bowl and handed it to me. “I only have
one bowl. I didn’t expect visitors. And the last person I expected
was you!”

“Why are you here?” I asked him. “Are you going to spend the
winter here?” I didn’t voice the thought, but I doubted he would
survive. Maybe he didn’t want to. I drank a mouthful of soup. It was
hot and salty, but that was about all you could say for it. And this
seemed to be the only food he had. What had happened to the
energetic young man I’d first met at Terayama? What had driven
him to this state of resignation, almost despair?

I pulled the quilt around me and edged a little closer to the fire. As
always I listened. The wind had strengthened and was whistling
through the thatch. Every now and then a gust made the lamp
flicker, throwing grotesque shadows onto the opposite wall. The
noise of whatever was falling outside was not the soft, breathlike
touch of snow but harder and more sleety.

Now that the doors were closed the hut was warming up. My
clothes were beginning to steam. I drained the bowl and passed it
back to him. He filled it, took a sip, and placed it on the floor.

“The winter, the rest of my life, whichever turns out to be the
longer,” he said, looked at me, looked down. “It’s hard for me to
talk to you, Takeo, since so much of it concerns you, but the
Enlightened One has seen fit to bring you here, so I have to try.
Your presence changes everything. I told you, your apparition has
been constantly with me; you visit me at night in dreams. I have
been striving to overcome this obsession.”

He smiled self-mockingly. “Since I was a child I have tried to
practice detachment from the world of the senses. My only desire
was enlightenment. I craved holiness. I’m not saying I’d never had
attachments: you know what it’s like when men live together
without women. Terayama is no exception. But I never fell in love
with anyone. I never became obsessed as I did with you.” Again
the smile curved his lips. “I won’t go into why. It’s not important,
and anyway, I’m not sure I even know. However, after Lord
Shigeru’s death, you were out of your mind with grief. I was moved
by your suffering. I wanted to comfort you.”

“You did comfort me,” I said, in a low voice.

“For me it went beyond comfort! I didn’t realize it would be so
powerful. I loved the way I felt and was grateful for experiencing
what I’d never felt before, and I loathed it. It made all my spiritual
strivings seem like a hollow sham. I went to our abbot and told him
I thought I should leave the temple and return to the world. He
suggested I go away for a while to think about my decision. I have
a boyhood friend in the West, Mamoru, who had been pleading
with me to visit him. You know, I play the flute a little. I was invited
to join Mamoru and others in presenting a drama, Atsutnori.”

He fell silent. The wind threw a flurry of sleet against the wall. The
lamp guttered so violently, it almost went out. I had no idea what
Makoto was going to say next, but my heart had picked up speed
and I could feel the pulse quickening in my throat. Not with desire,
though the memory of desire was there; it was more a fear of
hearing what I did not want to hear.

Makoto said, “My friend lives in the household of Lord Fujiwara.”

I shook my head. I’d never heard of him.

“He is a nobleman living in exile from the capital. His lands run
alongside the Shirakawa.”

Just to hear her name spoken was like being hit in the belly. “Did
you see Lady Shirakawa?”

He nodded.

“I was told she was dying.” My heart was hammering so hard, I
thought it would leap from my throat.

“She was gravely ill but she recovered. Lord Fujiwara’s physician
saved her life.”

“She’s alive?” The dim lamp seemed to brighten until the hut was
full of light. “Kaede is alive?”

He studied my face, his own filled with pain. “Yes, and I am
profoundly thankful, for if she had died it would have been me who
dealt the fatal blow.”

I was frowning, trying to puzzle out his words. “What happened?”

“The Fujiwara household knew her as Lady Otori. It was believed
that Lord Shigeru married her secretly at Terayama, on the day he
came to his brother’s grave, the day we met. I had not expected to
see her in Lord Fujiwara’s house; I had not been told of her
marriage. I was completely taken aback when she was introduced
to me. I assumed you had married her—that you were there
yourself. I blurted out as much. Not only did I reveal to myself the
strength and nature of my obsession with you, which I’d fooled
myself I was recovering from, I destroyed her pretense in an
instant, in the presence of her father.”

“But why would she claim such a thing?”

“Why does any woman claim to be married when she is not? She
nearly died because she miscarried a child.”

I could not speak.

Makoto said, “Her father questioned me about the marriage. I knew
it had not taken place at Terayama. I tried to avoid answering him
directly, but he already had his own suspicions and I had said
enough to confirm them. I did not know it then, but his mind was
very unstable and he had often spoken of taking his own life. He slit
his belly in her presence, and the shock must have caused the
miscarriage.”

I said, “The child was mine. She should have been my wife. She
will be.”

But as I heard my own words, my betrayal of Kaede seemed all the
more enormous. Would she ever forgive me?

“So I assumed,” he said. “But when? What were you thinking of? A
woman of her rank and family?”

“We were thinking of death. It was the night Shigeru died and
Inuyama fell. We did not want to die without…” I was unable to
continue.

After a few moments Makoto went on, “I could not live with myself.
My passion had led me deeply back into the world of suffering I
thought I could escape. I felt I had done irreparable harm to
another sentient being, even though only a woman, but at the same
time some jealous part of me wanted her to die, because I knew
that you loved her and that she must have loved you. You see, I am
hiding nothing from you. I must tell you the worst about myself.”

“I would be the last to condemn you. My own conduct has been far
more cruel in its effects.”

“But you belong to this world, Takeo; you live in the midst of it. I
wanted to be different. Even that was revealed to me as the most
hideous pride. I returned to Terayama and sought our abbot’s
permission to retire to this small hut, where I would devote my flute
playing and any passion that remained in me to serving the
Enlightened One, though I no longer even hope for his
enlightenment, for I am completely unworthy of it.”

“We all live in the midst of the world,” I said. “Where else is there
to live?” As I spoke I thought I heard Shigeru’s voice: Just as the
river is
always at the door, so is the world always outside. And it is in the
world that we have to live.

Makoto was staring at me, his face suddenly open, his eyes
brighter. “Is that the message I am to hear? Is that why you were
sent to me?”

“I hardly know my plans for my own life,” I replied. “How can I
fathom yours? But this was one of the first things I learned from
Shigeru. It is in the world that we have to live.”

“Then let’s take it as a command from him,” Makoto said, and I
could see the energy beginning to flow back into him. He seemed
to have been resigned to death, but now he was coming back to
life before my eyes. “You intend now to carry out his wishes?”

“Ichiro told me I must take revenge on Shigeru’s uncles and claim
my inheritance, and so I mean to. But as to how I achieve it, I have
no idea. And I must marry Lady Shirakawa. That was also Shigeru’s
desire.”

“Lord Fujiwara wishes to marry her,” Makoto said carefully.

I wanted to brush this aside. I could not believe Kaede would marry
anyone else. Her last words to me had been, “I will never love
anyone but you.” And before that she had said, “I am only safe with
you.” I knew the reputation she had acquired: that any man who
touched her died. I had lain with her and lived. I had given her a
child. And I had abandoned her, she had nearly died, she had lost
our child… Would she ever forgive me?

Makoto went on: “Fujiwara prefers men to women. But he seems to
have become obsessed with Lady Shirakawa. He proposes a
marriage in name only, to give her his protection. Presumably he is
also not indifferent to her inheritance. Shirakawa is pitifully run
down, but there is always Maruyama.”

When I made no comment he murmured, “He is a collector. She
will become one of his possessions. His collection never sees the
light of day. It is shown only to a few privileged friends.“

“That cannot happen to her!”

“What other choices does she have? She is lucky not to be
completely disgraced. To have survived the deaths of so many
men connected with her is shameful enough. But there is also
something unnatural about her. They say she had two of her
father’s retainers put to death when they would not serve her. She
reads and writes like a man. And apparently she is raising an army
to claim Maruyama for herself in the spring.”

“Maybe she will be her own protection,” I said.

“A woman?” Makoto replied, scornful. “It’s impossible.”

I felt my heart swell with admiration for Kaede. What an ally she
would make! If we were to marry, we would hold half the Seishuu
territory. Maruyama would give me all the resources I needed to
fight the Otori lords. Once they were dealt with, only the former
Tohan heartland which was now Arai’s, would prevent our lands
from stretching from sea to sea as the prophecy promised.

Now that the snows had begun, everything had to wait till spring. I
was exhausted; yet, I burned with impatience. I dreaded Kaede
making an irrevocable decision before I saw her again.

“You said you would go with me to the temple?”

Makoto nodded. “We’ll leave as soon as it’s light.”

“But you would have stayed here all winter if I had not stumbled in
on you?”

“I have no illusions,” he replied. “I would probably have died here.
Maybe you have saved my life.”

We talked until late into the night. Makoto talked as if the presence
of another human being had unlocked weeks of silence. He told
me something of his background; he was four years older than I
was and had been born into a low-ranking warrior family that had
served the Otori until Yaegahara and after that defeat had been
forced to transfer their allegiance to the Tohan. He had been
brought up as a warrior but was the fifth son in a large family that
became steadily more impoverished. From an early age his love of
learning and his interest in religion had been encouraged, and
when the family began its decline, he had been sent to Terayama.
He was eleven years old. His brother, then thirteen, had also been
intended as a novice, but after the first winter he had run away and
had not been heard of since. The oldest brother had been killed
atYaegahara; their father died not long after. His two sisters were
married to Tohan warriors, and he had heard nothing from them for
years. His mother still lived on the family farm, such as it was, with
his two surviving brothers and their families. They hardly
considered themselves as part of the warrior class anymore. He
saw his mother once or twice a year.

We talked easily, like old friends, and I remembered how I had
longed for such a companion when I was on the road with Akio. A
little older and much better educated than I was, Makoto had a
gravity and thoughtfulness that contrasted with my reckless nature.
Yet, as I was to find out later, he was both strong and courageous,
still a warrior as well as a monk and a scholar.

He went on to tell me about the horror and outrage that swept
through Yamagata and Terayama after Shigeru’s death.

“We were armed and prepared for an uprising. Iida had been
threatening the destruction of our temple for some time, aware that
we were growing richer and more powerful every year. He knew
what strong resentment there was about being ceded to the Tohan,
and he hoped to nip any rebellion in the bud. You saw how the
people regarded Lord Shigeru. Their sense of loss and grief at his
death was ter-rible. I’d never seen anything like it. The riots in the
town that the Tohan had feared while he lived erupted with even
more violence at the news of his death. There was a spontaneous
uprising; former Otori warriors, townspeople armed with stakes,
even farmers with scythes and stones, advanced on the castle. We
were poised to join the attack when news came of Iida’s death and
Arai’s victory at Inuyama. The Tohan forces fell back, and we
began to chase them toward Kushimoto. ”We met you on the road,
with Iida’s head. By then everyone was beginning to know the story
about your rescue of Lord Shigeru. And they began to guess the
identity of the one they called the Angel of Yamagata.“

He sighed and blew on the last of the embers. The lamp had long
since gone out. “When we returned to Terayama, you did not seem
like a hero at all. You were as lost and grief-stricken as anyone I’d
ever seen and still faced with heartrending decisions. You
interested me when we first met, but I thought you
strange—talented maybe but weak; your sense of hearing seemed
freakish, like an animal’s. Usually I consider myself a good judge of
men. I was surprised when you were given an invitation to come
back again, and puzzled by Shigeru’s confidence in you. I realized
you were not what you seemed, saw what courage you must have
had, and glimpsed the strength of your emotions. I fell in love with
you. As I said, it had never happened to me before. And I said I
wasn’t going to tell you why, but now I have.” After a moment he
added, “I won’t speak of it again.”

“There’s no harm,” I replied. “The opposite, rather. I need
friendship more than anything else in the world.”

“Apart from an army?”

“That has to wait till spring.”

“I’ll do anything in my power to help you.”

“What about your calling, your search for enlightenment?”

“Your cause is my calling,” he said. “Why else would the
Enlightened One bring you here to remind me that we live in the
midst of the world? A bond of great strength exists between us.
And I see now that I don’t have to struggle against it.”

The fire was almost out. I could no longer see Makoto’s face.
Beneath the thin quilt I was shivering. I wondered if I could sleep,
would ever sleep again, would ever stop listening for the
assassin’s breath. In a world that seemed almost entirely hostile,
Makoto’s devotion touched me deeply. I could think of nothing to
say. I took his hand and clasped it briefly in thanks.

“Will you keep watch while I sleep for a couple of hours?”

“Of course I will.”

“Wake me, and then you can sleep before we go.”

He nodded. I wrapped myself in the second quilt and lay down.
The faintest glow came from the fire. I could hear its dying
susurration. Outside the wind had dropped a little. The eaves
dripped; some small creature was rustling in the thatch. An owl
hooted and the mouse went still. I drifted into an uneasy sleep and
dreamed of children drowning. I plunged again and again into icy
black water but was unable to save them.

The cold woke me. Dawn was just beginning to lighten the hut.
Makoto sat in the position of meditation. His breathing was so slow,
I could hardly hear it; yet, I knew he was completely alert. I watched
him for a few moments. When he opened his eyes I looked away.

“You should have woken me.”

“I feel rested. I need very little sleep.” He said curiously, “Why
don’t you ever look at me?”

“I might send you to sleep. It’s one of the Tribe skills I inherited. I
should be able to control it, but I’ve put people to sleep without
meaning to. So I don’t look them in the eye.”

“You mean there’s more than just the hearing? What else?”

“I can make myself invisible—for long enough to confuse an
opponent or slip past a guard. And I can seem to remain in a place
after I’ve left it or to be in two places at once. We call it using the
second self.” I watched him without appearing to as I said this, for I
was interested in his reaction.

He could not help recoiling slightly. “Sounds more like a demon
than an angel,” he muttered. “Can all these people, the Tribe, do
this?”

“Different people have different skills. I seem to have inherited
many more than my share.”

“I knew nothing about the Tribe, did not even know they existed,
until our abbot spoke of you and your connection with them, after
your visit in the summer.”

“Many think the skills are sorcery,” I said.

“Are they?”

“I don’t know, because I don’t know how I do them. The skills came
to me. I did not seek them. But training enhances them.”

“I suppose like any skills they can be used for good or evil,” he
said quietly.

“Well, the Tribe want only to use them for their own purposes,” I
said. “Which is why they will not let me live. If you come with me,
you will be in the same danger. Are you prepared for that?”

He nodded. “Yes, I’m prepared. Doesn’t it alarm you, though? It
would make most men weak with fear.”

I did not know how to answer. I have often been described as
fearless, but that seems too fine a word for a state that is more like
invisibility, a gift I was born with. And fearlessness only comes on
me from time to time, and then takes energy to maintain. I know
fear as well as any man. I didn’t want to think about it then. I stood
and took up my clothes. They were not really dry, and they felt
clammy against op my skm as I put them on. I went outside to piss.
The air was raw and damp, but the snow had stopped, and what lay
on the ground was slushy. There were no footprints around the hut
and shrine save my own, already half-covered. The track
disappeared downhill. It was passable. The mountain and the
forest were silent, apart from the wind. Far in the distance I could
hear crows, and a little closer some smaller bird piped in a
mournful way. I could hear no sound of human existence, no ax on
trunk, no temple bell, no village dog. The shrine spring made a low,
welling sound. I washed my face and hands in the icy black water
and drank deeply.

That was all the breakfast we had. Makoto packed his few
possessions, tucked the flutes into his belt, and picked up the
fighting pole. It was his only weapon. I gave him the short sword I’d
taken from my assailant the day before, and he placed it next to the
flutes in his belt.

As we set out, a few flakes of snow were drifting down, and they
continued to fall all morning. The path, however, was not too thickly
covered, and Makoto of course knew the way well. Every now and
then I slipped on an icy patch or stepped in a hole up to my knees.
Soon my clothes were as wet as they’d been the night before. The
path was narrow; we went in single file at a fair pace, hardly
speaking. Makoto seemed to have no words left, and I was too
busy listening— for the breath, the broken stick, the thrum of
bowstring, the whistle of throwing knife. I felt like a wild animal,
always in danger, always hunted.

The light paled to pearl gray, stayed like that for three hours or so,
then began to darken. The flakes fell more heavily, beginning to
swirl and settle. Around noon we stopped to drink from a small
stream, but as soon as we stopped walking the cold attacked us,
so we did not linger.

“This is the North River, which flows past the temple,” Makoto said.
“We follow its course all the way. It’s less than two hours now.”

It seemed so much easier than my journey since I’d left Hagi. I
almost began to relax. Terayama was only two hours away. I had a
companion. We were going to get to the temple, and I would be
safe for the winter. But the babbling of the river drowned out all
other sound, and so I had no warning of the men who were waiting
for us.

There were two of them, and they came at us out of the forest like
wolves. But they were anticipating one man—me—and Makoto’s
presence surprised them. They saw what they thought was a
harmless monk and went for him first, expecting him to run away.
He dropped the first man with a blow to the head that must have
cracked the skull. The second man had a long sword, which
surprised me, as the Tribe do not usually carry them. I went
invisible as he swung at me, came up under his reach, and slashed
at his sword hand, trying to disable him. The knife glanced off his
glove. I stabbed again and let my image appear at his feet. The
second stab went home, and blood began to drip from his right
wrist as he swung again. My second self faded and I, still invisible,
leaped on him, trying to slash him in the throat, wishing I had Jato
and could fight him properly. He could not see me, but he grabbed
at my arms and cried out in horror. I felt myself becoming visible,
and he realized it at the same time. He stared into my face as if he
saw a ghost, his eyes widening in terror and then beginning to
waver, as Makoto struck him from behind, cracking the pole against
his neck. He went down like an ox, taking me down with him.

I scrambled out from beneath him and pulled Makoto into the
shelter of the rocks, in case there were more of them on the
hillside. What I feared most were bowmen who could pick us off
from afar. But the forest grew too thickly here to be able to use a
bow from any distance. There was no sign of anyone else.

Makoto was breathing hard, his eyes bright. “I realize now what you
meant about your skills.”

“You’re pretty skillful yourself! Thanks.”

“Who are they?”

I went to the two bodies. The first man was Kikuta—I could tell
from his hands—but the second wore the Otori crest under his
armor.

“This one is a warrior,” I said, gazing at the heron. “That explains
the sword. The other is from the Tribe—Kikuta.”

I did not know the man, but we had to be relatives, linked by the
lines on our palms.

The Otori warrior made me nervous. Had he come from Hagi?
What was he doing with one of the Tribe’s assassins? It seemed
to be common knowledge that I was heading for Terayama. My
thoughts flew to Ichiro. I prayed they had not extracted the
information from him. Or was it Jo-An or one of the impoverished
men I’d feared would betray me? Maybe these men had already
been to the temple and there would be more of them waiting for us
there.

“You completely disappeared,” Makoto said. “I could only see your
prints in the snow. It’s extraordinary.” He grinned at me, his face
transformed. It was hard to believe he was the same person as the
despairing flute player of the previous night. “It’s been a while
since I’ve had a decent fight. It’s amazing how a brush with death
makes life so beautiful.”

The snow seemed whiter and the cold more piercing. I was terribly
hungry, yearning for the comforts of the senses, a scalding bath,
food, wine, a lover’s body naked against mine.

We went on with renewed energy. We needed it; in the last hour or
so the wind increased and the snow began to fall heavily again. I
had reason to become even more grateful to Makoto, for by the
end we were walking blind; yet he knew the path and never
faltered. Since I had last been to the temple, a wooden wall had
been erected around the main buildings, and at the gate guards
challenged us. Makoto replied and they welcomed him excitedly.
They had been anxious for him and were relieved that he had
decided to return.

After they had barred the gate again and we were inside the
guardroom, they looked searchingly at me, not sure if they knew
me or not. Makoto said, “Lord OtoriTakeo is seeking refuge here
for the winter. Will you inform our abbot that he is here?”

One of them hurried away across the courtyard, his figure, bowed
against the wind, turning white before he reached the cloister. The
great roofs of the main halls were already capped with snow, the
bare branches of cherry and plum trees heavy with the blossom of
winter.

The guards beckoned us to sit by the fire. Like Makoto, they were
young monks, their weapons bows, spears, and poles. They
poured us tea. Nothing had ever tasted quite as good to me. The
tea and our clothes steamed together, creating a comforting
warmth. I tried to fight it; I did not want to relax yet.

“Has anyone come here looking for me?”

“Strangers were noticed on the mountain early this morning. They
skirted the temple and went on up into the forest. We had no idea
they were looking for you. We were a little concerned for Makoto—
we thought they might be bandits—but the weather was too bad to
send anyone out. Lord Otori has arrived at a good time. The way
you came down is already impassable. The temple will be closed
now till spring.”

“It is an honor for us that you have returned,” one of them said
shyly, and the glances they exchanged told me they had a fair idea
of the significance of my appearance.

After ten minutes or so the monk came hurrying back. “Our abbot
welcomes Lord Otori,” he said, “and asks that you will bathe and
eat. He would like to speak with you when the evening prayers are
finished.”

Makoto finished his tea, bowed formally to me, and said he must
get ready for evening prayers, as though he had spent the whole
day in the temple with the other monks, not slogging through a
blizzard and killing two men. His manner was cool and formal. I
knew beneath it lay the heart of a true friend, but here he was one
of the monks, while I had to relearn how to be a lord. The wind
howled around the gables; the snow drifted relentlessly down. I
had come in safety to Terayama. The winter was mine to reshape
my life.

I was taken to one of the temple guest rooms by the young man
who’d brought the abbot’s message. In spring and summer these
rooms would have been full of visitors and pilgrims, but now they
were deserted. Even though the outer shutters were closed
against the storm, it was bitterly cold. The wind moaned through
the chinks in the wall, and through some of the larger ones snow
drifted. The same monk showed me the way to the small
bathhouse built above a hot spring. I took off my wet, filthy clothes
and scrubbed myself all over. Then I eased my body into the hot
water. It was even better than I’d imagined it would be. I thought of
the men who had tried to kill me in the last two days and was
fiercely glad I was alive. The water steamed and bubbled around
me. I felt a rush of gratitude for it, that it should well up out of the
mountain, bathe my aching body, and un-thaw my frozen limbs. I
thought about mountains, which were just as likely to spit out ash
and fire or shake their sides and throw buildings around like
kindling, and make men feel as helpless as the insects that crawl
from burning logs. This mountain could have gripped me and
frozen me to death, but instead it had given me this scalding water.

My arms were bruised from the warrior’s grip, and there was a long,
shallow cut on my neck where his sword must have grazed me. My
right wrist, which had bothered me on and off ever since Akio had
bent it backward, in Inuyama, tearing the tendons, now felt
stronger. My body seemed more spare than ever, but otherwise I
was in good shape after the journey. And now I was clean too.

I heard footsteps in the room beyond, and the monk called out that
he had brought dry clothes and some food. I emerged from the
water, my skin bright red from the heat, rubbed myself dry on the
rags left there for that purpose, and ran back along the boardwalk
through the snow to the room.

It was empty. The clothes lay on the floor: clean loincloth, quilted
undergarments, silken outer robe, also quilted, and sash. The robe
was a dark plum color woven with a deeper pattern of purple, the
Otori crest in silver on the back. I put it on slowly, relishing the
touch of the silk. It had been a long time since I had worn anything
of this quality. I wondered why it was at the temple and who had left
it here. Had it been Shigeru’s? I felt his presence envelop me. The
first thing I would do in the morning would be to visit his grave. He
would tell me how to achieve revenge.

The smell of the food made me realize how famished I was. The
meal was more substantial than anything I’d had for days, and it
took me just two minutes to devour it. Then, not wanting to lose the
heat from the bath or to fall asleep, I went through some exercises,
ending with meditation.

Beyond the wind and the snow I could hear the monks chanting
from the main hall of the temple. The snowy night, the deserted
room with its memories and ghosts, the serene words of the
ancient sutras, all combined to produce an exquisite bittersweet
sensation. My spine chilled. I wished I could express it, wished I
had paid more

S

attention when Ichiro had tried to teach me poetry. I longed to hold
the brush in my hand: If I could not express my feelings in words,
perhaps I could paint them.

“Come back to us,” the old priest had said, “When all this is
over…” Part of me wished I could do that and spend the rest of my
days in this tranquil place. But I remembered how even here I had
overheard plans of war; the monks were armed and the temple
fortified now. It was far from over; indeed it was only just begun.

The chanting came to an end and I heard the soft pad of feet as
the monks filed away to eat, then sleep for a few hours until the bell
roused them at midnight. Footsteps approached the room from the
cloister, and the same monk came to the door and slid it open. He
bowed to me and said, “Lord Otori, our abbot wishes to see you
now.”

I stood and followed him along the cloister. “What’s your name?”

“Norio, sir,” he replied, and added in a whisper, “I was born in
Hagi.”

He did not say more, the rule of the temple being that no one
spoke unnecessarily. We walked around the central courtyard,
already filled with snow, past the eating hall where the monks knelt
in silent rows, each with a bowl of food in front of him, past the
main hall, which smelled of incense and candle wax and where the
golden figure sat gleaming in the dimness, to the third side of the
square. Here lay a series of small rooms used as offices and
studies. From the farthest I could hear the click of prayer beads,
the whisper of a sutra. We stopped outside the first room and
Norio called in a low voice, “Lord Abbot, your visitor is here.”

I was ashamed when I saw him, for it was the old priest himself, in
the same old clothes I had seen him in when I had last been at
Terayama. I had thought him one of the old men of the temple, not
its head. I had been so wrapped up in my own concerns, I had not
even known who he was. I dropped to my knees and touched my
forehead to the matting. As informal as ever, he came toward me,
told me to sit up, and embraced me. Then he sat back and studied
me, his face illuminated by his smile. I smiled back, sensing his
genuine pleasure and responding to it.

“Lord Otori,” he said, “I am very glad you have returned to us
safely.

You have been much on my mind. You have been through dark
times.“

“They are not over. But I seek your hospitality for the winter. I

seem to be hunted by everyone, and I need a place of safety while
I

prepare myself.“

“Makoto has told me a little of your situation. You are always
welcome here.”

“I must tell you my purpose right away. I mean to claim my
inheritance from the Otori and punish those responsible for Lord
Shigeru’s death. It may place the temple in some danger.”

“We are prepared for that,” he replied serenely. “You are doing me
a great kindness that I don’t deserve.”

“I think you will find that those of us who have long-standing
connections with the Otori consider ourselves in your debt,” he
replied. “And of course we have faith in your future.”

More than I have, I thought silently. I felt the color come to my face.
It was unthinkable that he should praise me, after all the mistakes I
had made. I felt like an impostor, dressed in the Otori robe, with my
hair cropped, no money, no possessions, no men, no sword.

“All endeavors start with a single action,” he said, as though he
could read my mind. “Your first action was to come here.”

“My teacher, Ichiro, sent me. He will meet me here in the spring.
He advised me to seek Lord Arai’s protection. I should have done
that from the start.”

The abbot’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “No, the Tribe would not

have let you live. You were far more vulnerable then. You did not
know your enemy. Now you have some inkling of their power.“

“How much do you know about them?”

“Shigeru confided in me and sought my advice often. On his last
visit we spoke at length about you.”

“I didn’t hear that.”

“No, he was careful to speak by the waterfall so you would not
hear. Later we moved into this room.”

“Where you spoke of war.”

“He needed my assurance that the temple and the town would rise
once Iida was dead. He was still of two minds about the
assassination attempt, fearing he would simply be sending you to
certain death. As it turned out, it was his own death that sparked the
uprising, and we could not have prevented it even if we had wanted
to. However, Arai was in alliance with Shigeru, not with the Otori
clan. If he can take this territory for himself, he will. They will be at
war by the summer.”

He was silent for a moment, then went on, “The Otori intend to
claim Shigeru’s land and declare your adoption illegal. Not content
with conspiring in his death, they insult his memory. That’s why I’m
glad you intend to take up your inheritance.”

“Will the Otori ever accept me, though?” I held out my hands,
palms upward. “I am marked as Kikuta.”

“We’ll talk about that later. You’ll be surprised how many are
awaiting your return. You’ll see in the spring. Your men will find
you.”

“An Otori warrior already tried to kill me,” I said, unconvinced.

“Makoto told me. The clan will be split, but Shigeru knew this and
accepted it. The rift was not of his making: The seeds were sown
when he was usurped after his father’s death.”

“I hold Shigeru’s uncles responsible for his death,” I said. “But the
more I learn, the more it surprises me that they let him live so
long.”

“Fate decrees the lengths of all our lives,” he replied. “The Otori
lords fear their own people. Their farmers are volatile by nature and
tradition. They have never been completely cowed, like the
peasants under the Tohan. Shigeru knew them and respected
them and in turn won their respect and affection. That protected
him against his uncles. Their loyalty will be transferred to you.”

“Maybe,” I said, “but there is a more serious problem. I am now
sentenced to death by the Tribe.”

His face was calm, ivory-colored in the lamplight. “Which I imagine
is another reason you are here.”

I thought he would go on, but he fell silent. He was watching me
with an expectant look on his face.

“Lord Shigeru kept records,” I said, speaking carefully into the
hushed room. “Records of the Tribe and their activities. I am
hoping you will make them available to me.”

“They have been kept here for you,” he replied. “I will send for
them now. And of course there is something else I have been
keeping for you.”

“Jato,” I said.

He nodded. “You are going to need it.”

He called to Norio and asked him to go to the storehouse and fetch
the chest and the sword.

“Shigeru did not want to influence any decision you might make,”
he said as I listened to Norio’s footsteps echoing away around the
cloister. “He was aware that your inheritance would cause divisions
in your loyalty. He was quite prepared for you to choose your
Kikuta side. In that case no one would ever have access to the
records except myself. But since you have chosen your Otori side,
the records are yours.”

“I have bought myself a few months of life,” I said with a trace of
self-contempt. “There’s no nobility in my choice unless it is that I
am finally doing what Lord Shigeru wanted. It’s hardly even a
choice, since my life with the Tribe was approaching an end. As for
my Otori side, it is only by adoption and will be questioned by
everyone.”

Again the smile lit his face, his eyes bright with understanding and
wisdom. “Shigeru’s will is as good a reason as any.”

I felt he had some other knowledge that he would share with me
later, but even as that thought came I heard footsteps returning. I
could not help tensing before I recognized them as Norio’s, slightly
heavier this time: He was carrying the chest and the sword. He slid
open the door and stepped inside, dropping to his knees. He
placed the chest and the sword on the matting. I did not turn my
head, but I heard the soft sound they made. My pulse quickened,
with a mixture of joy and fear, at the prospect of holding Jato again.

Norio closed the door behind him and, kneeling again, placed the
precious objects in front of the abbot where I, too, could see them.
They were both wrapped in pieces of old cloth, their power
disguised. The abbot took Jato from its covering and held it out
toward me in both hands. I took it in the same fashion, raised it
above my head, and bowed to him, feeling the cool familiar weight
of the scabbard. I longed to draw the sword and wake its steel
song, but I would not do so in the presence of the abbot. I placed it
reverently on the floor next to me while he unwrapped the chest.

A smell of rue rose from it. I recognized it at once. It was indeed
the one I had carried under Kenji’s eyes up the mountain path,
thinking it some gift for the temple. Had Kenji no idea then of what
it contained?

The old man opened the lid—it was not locked—and the smell of
rue intensified. He lifted one of the scrolls and held it out to me.

“You were to read this one first. That was Shigeru’s instruction to
me.” As I took it he said with sudden profound emotion, “I did not
think this moment would come.”

I looked into his eyes. Deep-set in his old face, they were as bright
and as lively as a twenty-year-old’s. He held my gaze, and I knew
he would never succumb to the Kikuta sleep. In the distance one
of the smaller bells rang three times. In my mind’s eye I could see
the monks at prayer, in meditation. I felt the spiritual power of this
holy place, concentrated and reflected in the person of the old man
before me now. Again I felt a rush of gratitude—to him, to the
belief that sustained him, to heaven, and to the different gods who,
despite my own disbelief, seemed to have taken my life into their
charge and care.

“Read it,” he prompted me. “The rest you can study later, but read
this one now.”

I unrolled the scroll, frowning at the script. I recognized Shigeru’s
hand and I knew the characters, my own name among them, but
the words made no sense to me. My eyes darted up and down the
columns; I unrolled a little more and found myself in a sea of
names. It seemed to be a genealogy, like the ones Gosaburo had
explained to me in Matsue. Once I’d grasped that, I began to work
it out. I went back to the introductory writing and read it carefully
again. Then I read it a third time. I looked up at the abbot. Is it true?

He chuckled softly. “It seems it is. You do not see your own face,
so you don’t see the proof there. Your hands may be Kikuta, but
your features are all Otori. Your father’s mother worked as a spy for
the Tribe. She was employed by the Tohan and sent to Hagi when
Shigeru’s father, Shigemori, was hardly more than a boy. A liaison
occurred, apparently not one sanctioned by the Tribe. Your father
was the result. Your grandmother must have been a woman of
some ingenuity: She told no one. She was married to one of her
cousins and the child was brought up as Kikuta.”

“Shigeru and my father were brothers? He was my uncle?”

“It would be hard for anyone to deny it, given the way you look.
When Shigeru first set eyes on you, he was struck by your
resemblance to his younger brother, Takeshi. Of course, the two
brothers were very alike. Now, if your hair were longer, you would
be the image of Shigeru as a young man.”

“How did he discover this?”

“Some of it from his own family records. His father had always
suspected that the woman had conceived a child and confided this
to him before he died. The rest Shigeru worked out for himself. He
traced your father to Mino and realized a son had been born after
his death. Your father must have suffered some of the same
conflict as you. Despite being raised as Kikuta and despite his
skills, high even by the standards of the Tribe, he still tried to
escape from them; in itself this suggests that his blood was mixed
and that he lacked the fanaticism of the true Tribe. Shigeru had
been compiling his records of the Tribe since he first became
acquainted with Muto Kenji.They met at Yaegahara; Kenji was
caught up in the fighting and witnessed Shige-mori’s death.” He
glanced down at Jato. “He retrieved this sword and gave it to
Shigeru. They may have told you the story.”

“Kenji once alluded to it,” I said.

“Kenji helped Shigeru escape from Iida’s soldiers. They were both
young men then; they became friends. Apart from the friendship
they were useful to each other. Over the years they exchanged
information about many things—sometimes, it must be said,
unwittingly. I don’t believe even Kenji realized how secretive, even
devious, Lord Shigeru could be.”

I was silent. The revelation had astonished me; yet, on reflection it
made perfect sense. It had been my Otori blood that had been so
eager to learn the lessons of revenge when my family were
massacred at Mino—that same blood that had formed the bond
with Shigeru. I grieved for him anew, wished I had known earlier,
yet rejoiced that he and I shared the same lineage, that I truly
belonged to the Otori.

“This confirms that I have made the right choice,” I said finally, in a
voice choked by emotion. “But if I am to be one of the Otori, a
warrior, I have so much to learn.” I gestured at the scrolls in the
chest. “Even my reading is poor!”

“You have the whole winter ahead of you,” the abbot replied.
“Makoto will help you with reading and writing. In the spring you
should go to Arai to learn the practice of war. In the meantime you
must study its theory and keep up your training with the sword.”

He paused and smiled again. I could tell he had another of his
surprises in store for me.

“I shall teach you,” he said. “Before I was called to the service of
the Enlightened One, I was considered something of an expert in
these matters. My name in the world was Matsuda Shingen.”

Even I had heard this name. Matsuda was one of the most
illustrious Otori warriors of the previous generation, a hero to the
young men of Hagi. The abbot chuckled as he read the
astonishment on my face. “I think we will enjoy the winter. Plenty of
exercise to keep us warm. Take your possessions, Lord Otori. We
will begin in the morning. When you are not studying, you will join
the monks in meditation. Makoto will rouse you at the hour of the
Tiger.”

I bowed before him, overwhelmed by gratitude. He waved me
away. “We are just repaying our debt to you.”

“No,” I said. “I am forever in your debt. I will do anything you tell
me. I am completely at your service.”

iL

I was at the door when he called out, “Maybe there is one thing.”

Turning, I fell to my knees. “Anything!”

“Grow your hair!” he said, laughing.

I could still hear him chuckling as I followed Norio back to the guest
room. He was carrying the chest for me, but I held Jato. The wind
had dropped a little; the snow had grown wetter and heavier. It
dulled sound, blanketing the mountain, shutting off the temple from
the world.

In the room the bedding had already been laid out. I thanked Norio
and bade him good night. Two lamps lit the room. I drew Jato from
its scabbard and gazed on the blade, thinking of the fire that had
forged it into this combination of delicacy, strength, and lethal
sharpness. The folds in the steel gave it a beautiful wavelike
pattern. It was Shigeru’s gift to me, along with my name and my
life. I held the sword in both hands and went through the ancient
movements he had taught me in Hagi.

Jato sang to me of blood and war.

aede came back from afar, out of a red landscape, lapped by fire
and blood. She had seen terrifying images during her fever; now
she opened her eyes on the familiar light and shade of her parents’
house. Often, when she had been a hostage with the Noguchi, she
had had this dream of waking at home, only to wake properly a few
moments later to the reality of life in the castle. She lay still now,
eyes closed, waiting for the second waking, aware of something
pricking her in the lower part of her belly and wondering why she
should dream of the smell of mugwort.

“She has returned to us!” The man’s voice, a stranger’s, startled
her. She felt a hand on her brow and knew it was Shizuka’s,
remembering feeling it there many times before, when its firm, cool
shape was the only thing that came between her mind and the
terrors that assailed her. It seemed to be all she could remember.
Something had happened to her, but her mind shied away from
thinking about it. The movement reminded her of falling. She must
have fallen from

Takeo’s horse, Raku, the little gray horse he had given her; yes,
she had fallen, and she had lost his child.

Her eyes filled with tears. She knew she was not thinking clearly,
but she knew the child was gone. She felt Shizuka’s hand move
and then it returned holding a cloth, slightly warmed, to wipe her
face.

“Lady!” Shizuka said. “Lady Kaede.”

Kaede tried to move her own hand, but it seemed to be
immobilized, and something pricked her there too.

“Don’t try to move,” Shizuka said. “Lord Fujiwara’s physician, Dr.
Ishida, has been treating you. You are going to get well now. Don’t
cry, lady!”

“It’s normal,” she heard the physician say. “Those who come close
to death always weep when they are brought back, whether from
joy or sorrow I’ve never been able to tell.”

Kaede herself did not know. The tears flowed, and when they
finally stopped, she fell asleep.

For several days she slept, woke, ate a little, and slept again. Then
she slept less but lay with her eyes closed, listening to the
household around her. She heard Hana’s voice regaining its
confidence, Ai’s gentle tone, Shizuka singing and scolding Hana,
who had taken to following her around like a shadow, trying to
please her. It was a house of women—the men stayed
away—women who were aware they had come close to the brink
of disaster, were still not out of danger, but so far had survived.
Autumn slowly turned to winter.

The only man was the physician, who stayed in the guest pavilion
and visited her every day. He was small and deft, with long-
fingered hands and a quiet voice. Kaede came to trust him,
sensing that he did not judge her. He did not think her good or
bad—indeed, he did not think in such terms at all. He only wanted
to see her recover.

He used techniques he had learned on the mainland: needles of
gold and silver, a paste of mugwort leaves burned on the skin, and
teas brewed from willow bark. He was the first person she had ever
met who had traveled there. Sometimes she lay and listened to his
voice telling Hana stories of the animals he had seen, huge whales
in the sea and bears and tigers on land.

When she was able to get up and walk outside, it was Dr. Ishida
who suggested that a ceremony should be held for the lost child.
Kaede was carried to the temple in a palanquin, and she knelt for a
long time before the shrine to Jizo, the one who looks after the
water children who die before they are born. She grieved for the
child whose moment of life had been so brief, conceived and
extinguished in the midst of violence. Yet, it had been a child
begun in love.

I will never forget you, she promised in her heart, and prayed it
would have a safer passage next time. She felt its spirit was now
safe until it began the journey of life again. She made the same
prayer for Shigeru’s child, realizing she was the only person apart
from Shizuka who knew of its brief moment of existence. The tears
flowed again, but when she returned home she did indeed feel that
a weight had been lifted from her.

“Now you must take up life again,” Dr. Ishida told her. “You are
young: You will marry and have other children.”

“I think I am destined not to marry,” Kaede replied.

He smiled, assuming she was joking. Of course, she thought, it
was a joke. Women in her position, of her rank, always married, or
rather were married to whoever seemed to offer the most
advantageous alliance. But such marriages were arranged by
fathers, or clan leaders, or other overlords, and she seemed
suddenly to be free of all these. Her father was dead, as were
most of his senior retainers. The Seishuu

J

clan, to which both the Maruyama and Shirakawa families
belonged, was fully occupied with the turmoil that had followed the
downfall of the Tohan and the sudden unexpected rise of Arai
Daüchi. Who was there to tell her what to do? Was it Arai now?
Should she be making a formal alliance with him, recognizing him
as her overlord? And what were the advantages or disadvantages
of such a move?

“You have grown very serious,” he said. “May I ask what is
occupying your mind? You must try not to worry.”

“I have to decide what to do,” she said.

“I suggest doing nothing until you are stronger. Winter is nearly
upon us. You must rest, eat well, and be very careful not to take a
chill.”

And I must consolidate my lands, contact Sugita Hiroki at
Maruyama, and tell him I mean to take up my inheritance, and find
money and food for my men, she thought, but did not speak this
aloud to Ishida.

As she grew stronger she began to restore the house before the
snows began. Everything was washed, new matting laid, screens
repaired, tiles and shingles replaced. The garden was tended
again. She had little money to pay for anything, but she found men
to work for her on the promise of payment in the spring, and every
day she learned more of how a look or a tone of voice won her
their devoted service.

She moved into her father’s rooms, where at last she had
unrestricted access to his books. She read and practiced writing
for hours at a time, until Shizuka, fearing for her health, brought
Hana to distract her. Then Kaede played with her sister, teaching
her to read and use the brush like a man. Under Shizuka’s strict
care Hana had lost some of her wildness. She was as hungry for
learning as Kaede.

“We should both have been born boys,” Kaede sighed.

“Father would have been proud of us, then,” Hana said. Her

tongue was pressed against her upper teeth as she concentrated
on the characters.

Kaede did not reply. She never spoke of her father and tried not to
think about him. Indeed, she could no longer clearly distinguish
between what had actually happened when he died and the
feverish imaginings of her illness. She did not question Shizuka
and Kondo, afraid of their replies. She had been to the temple,
performed the rites of mourning, and ordered a fine stone to be
carved for his grave, but she still feared his ghost, which had
hovered at the edge of the redness of her fever. Though she clung
to the thought I have done nothing wrong, she could not remember
him without a twinge of shame, which she masked with anger.

He will he more helpful to me dead than alive, she decided, and let
it be known that she was reverting to the name of Shirakawa, since
it had been her father’s will that she should be his heir and should
remain in the family home. When Shoji returned to the house after
the period of mourning and began to go through the records and
accounts with her, she thought she detected some disapproval in
his attitude, but the accounts were in such a terrible state that she
used her anger to cow him. It was hard to believe affairs had been
allowed to deteriorate so badly. It seemed impossible to secure
enough food for the men she had already and their families, let
alone any others she might hope to employ. It was her main source
of anxiety.

With Kondo she went though the armor and weapons and gave
instructions for repairs to be done and replacements ordered. She
came to rely more and more on his experience and judgment. He
suggested she should reestablish the domain’s borders, to
prevent encroachment and to maintain the warriors’ fighting skills.
She agreed, knowing instinctively she had to keep the men
occupied and inter-ested. For the first time she found herself
grateful for the years in the castle, for she realized how much she
had learned about warriors and weapons. From then on, Kondo
often rode out with five or six men, making use of these
expeditions to bring back information too.

She told Kondo and Shizuka to let pieces of information fall among
the men: an alliance with Arai, the campaign for Maruyama in the
spring, the possibility of advancement and wealth.

She saw nothing of Lord Fujiwara, though he sent gifts: quail, dried
persimmons, wine, and warm quilted clothes. Ishida returned to the
nobleman’s residence, and she knew the doctor would inform him
of her progress, and certainly would not dare keep any secrets
from him. She did not want to meet Fujiwara. It was shameful to
have deceived him, and she regretted the loss of his regard for
her, but she was also relieved not to see him face-to-face. His
intense interest in her unnerved and repelled her, as much as his
white skin and cormorant eyes.

“He is a useful ally,” Shizuka told her. They were in the garden,
overseeing the replacement of the crushed stone lantern. It was a
cool clear day, of rare sunshine.

Kaede was watching a pair of ibis in the rice fields beyond the
gate. Their pale pink winter plumage glowed against the bare earth.

“He’s been very kind to me,” she said. “I know I owe my life to him,
through Dr. Ishida. But it would not trouble me if I never saw him
again.”

The ibis followed each other through the pools that had collected in
the corner of the fields, their curved bills stirring up the muddy
water.

“Anyway,” she added, “I am flawed for him now. He will despise
me more than ever.”

Shizuka had said nothing of the nobleman’s desire to marry Kaede,
and she did not mention it now.

Jo

“You must make some decisions,” she said quietly. “Otherwise we
will all starve before spring.”

“I am reluctant to approach anyone,” Kaede said. “I must not seem
like a supplicant, desperate and needy. I know I must go to Arai
eventually, but I think it can wait till winter is over.”

“I believe the birds will begin to gather before then,” Shizuka said.
“Arai will send someone to you, I expect.”

“And what about you, Shizuka?” Kaede said. The pillar was in
position and the new lantern in place. Tonight she would place a
lamp in it; it would look beautiful in the frosty garden under the clear
sky. “What will you do? I don’t suppose you will stay with me
forever, will you? You must have other concerns. What about your
sons? You must long to see them. And what are your commands
from the Tribe?”

“Nothing more at the moment than to continue looking after your
interests,” Shizuka replied.

“Would they have taken the child as they took Takeo?” Kaede said,
and then immediately added, “Oh, don’t answer me, there is no
point now.” She felt the tears threaten and pressed her lips firmly
together. She was silent for a few moments and then went on, “I
suppose you keep them informed of my actions and decisions
too?”

“I send messages from time to time to my uncle—when I thought
you were close to death, for instance. And I would tell him of any
new developments: if you were to decide to marry again, that sort
of thing.”

“I won’t be doing that.” As the afternoon light began to fade, the
pink plumage of the ibis glowed more deeply. It was very still. Now
that the workmen had finished, the garden seemed more silent
than ever. And in the silence she heard again the promise of the
White Goddess: Be patient.

I will marry no one but him, she vowed again. I will be patient.

It was the last day of sunshine. The weather became damp and
raw. A few days later Kondo returned from one of his patrols in a
rainstorm. Dismounting rapidly, he called to the women in the
house, “There are strangers on the road: Lord Arai’s men, five or
six, and horses.”

Kaede told him to assemble as many men as possible and give
the impression there were many more at call.

“Tell the women to prepare food,” she said to Shizuka. “Everything
we have, make it lavish. We must seem to be prospering. Help me
change my clothes, and bring my sisters. Then you must stay out
of sight.”

She put on the most elegant robe that Fujiwara had given her,
remembering as she always did the day she had promised it to
Hana.

She will get it when it Jits her, she thought, and I swear I will be
there to see her wear it.

Hana and Ai entered the room, Hana chattering excitedly and
jumping up and down to keep warm. Ayame followed, carrying a
brazier. Kaede winced when she saw how full of charcoal it was:
They would shiver more when Arai’s men were gone.

“Who is coming?” Ai asked nervously. Ever since their fathers
death and Kaede’s illness she had become more fragile, as if the
combined shocks had weakened her.

“Arai’s men. We have to make a good impression. That’s why I’ve
borrowed Hana’s robe back again.”

“Don’t get it dirty, Older Sister,” Hana said, groaning as Ayame
began to comb out her hair. Usually she wore it tied back. Loose, it
was longer than she was tall.

“What do they want?” Ai had gone pale.

“I expect they will tell us,” Kaede replied.

“Do I have to be here?” Ai pleaded.

“Yes. Put on the other robe Lord Fujiwara sent, and help Hana
dress. We must all be here together when they arrive.”

“Why?” Hana said.

Kaede did not answer. She herself hardly knew the reason. She
had had a sudden image of the three of them in the lonely house,
the three daughters of Lord Shirakawa, remote, beautiful,
dangerous… That was how they must appear to Arai’s warriors.

“All-merciful, all-compassionate one, help me,” she prayed to the
White Goddess as Shizuka tied her sash and combed out her hair.

She heard the tread of the horses’ feet outside the gate, heard
Kondo call a welcome to the men. His voice hit just the right note of
courtesy and confidence, and she thanked heaven for the Tribe’s
acting skills and hoped hers would be as great.

“Ayame, show our visitors to the guest pavilion,” she said. “Give
them tea and food. The best tea and the finest pottery. When
they’ve finished eating, ask their leader to come here to speak with
me. Hana, if you are ready, come and sit down next to me.”

Shizuka helped Ai with her robe and quickly combed her hair. “I will
hide where I can hear,” she whispered.

“Open the shutters before you go,” Kaede said. “We will get the
last of the sun.” For the rain had ceased and a fitful sun cast a
silvery light over the garden and into the room.

“What do I have to do?” Hana said, kneeling beside Kaede. “When
the men come in, you must bow at exactly the same moment I do.
And then just look as beautiful as you can and sit without moving a
muscle while I talk.”

“Is that all?” Hana was disappointed.

“Watch the men; study them without seeming to. You can tell me

afterward what you thought of them. You, too, Ai. You must give
nothing away, react to nothing—like statues.“

Ai came and knelt on Kaede’s other side. She was trembling but
was able to compose herself.

The sun’s last rays streamed into the room, setting the dust motes
dancing and lighting up the three girls. The newly cleared waterfall,
made louder by the rain, could be heard from the garden. A
shadow flashed blue as a kingfisher dove from a rock.

From the guest room came the murmur of the men’s voices.
Kaede imagined she could catch their unfamiliar smell. It made her
tense. She straightened her back and her mind turned to ict. She
would meet their power with her own. She would remember how
easily they could die.

In a little while she heard Ayame’s voice telling the men Lady
Shirakawa would receive them now. Shortly after, their leader and
one of his companions approached the mam house and stepped
onto the veranda. Ayame dropped to her knees at the edge of the
room, and the retainer also knelt outside. As the other man
crossed the threshold Kaede let him see the three of them and
then bowed to him, touching her forehead to the floor. Hana and Ai
moved at exactly the same time.

The three girls sat up in unison.

The warrior knelt and announced, “I am AkitaTsutomu from In-
uyama. I have been sent to Lady Shirakawa by Lord Arai.”

He bowed and stayed low. Kaede said, “Welcome, Lord Akita. I
am grateful to you for your arduous journey and to Lord Arai for
sending you. I am eager to learn how I may serve him.” She
added, “You may sit up.”

He did so, and she gazed frankly at him. She knew women were
supposed to keep their eyes cast down in the presence of men,
but she hardly felt like a woman anymore. She wondered if she
would ever be that sort of woman again. She realized Hana and Ai
were staring in the same way at Akita, with opaque, unreadable
eyes.

He was approaching middle age, his hair still black but beginning to
thin. His nose was small but slightly hooked, like a bird’s, giving him
a rapacious look, offset by a well-formed mouth with rather large
lips. His clothes were travel-stained but of good quality. His hands
were square and short-fingered, with strong, splayed thumbs. She
guessed he was a practical man, but also a conspirator, given to
trickery. There was nothing there to trust.

“Lord Arai asks after your health,” he said, looking at each of the
sisters, then returning his gaze to Kaede. “It was reported that you
were unwell.”

“I am recovered,” she replied. “You may thank Lord Arai for his
concern.”

He inclined his head slightly. He seemed ill at ease, as if he were
more at home among men than among women and unsure of how
to address her. She wondered how much he had heard of her
situation, if he knew the cause of her illness.

“We heard with great regret of Lord Shirakawa’s death,” he went
on. “Lord Arai has been concerned about your lack of protection
and wishes to make it clear that he considers you to be in as strong
an alliance with him as if you were part of his family.”

Hana and Ai turned their heads, exchanged a look with each other,
then resumed their silent staring. It seemed to unnerve Akita even
more. He cleared his throat. “That being the case, Lord Arai wishes
to receive you and your sisters at Inuyama to discuss the alliance
and Lady Shirakawa’s future.”

Impossible, she thought, though she said nothing for a few
moments. Then she spoke, smiling slightly: “Nothing would give
me greater pleasure. However, my health is not strong enough to
permit me to travel yet, and as we are still mourning our father, it is
not fitting that we should leave home. It is late in the year. We will
arrange a visit to Inuyama in the spring. You may tell Lord Arai that I
consider our alliance unbroken and I am grateful to him for his
protection. I will consult him as far as I am able and keep him
informed of my decisions.”

Again the look between Hana and Ai flashed through the room like
lightning. It really is uncanny, Kaede thought, and suddenly wanted
to laugh.

Akita said, “I must urge Lady Shirakawa to return with me.”

“It is quite impossible,” she said, meeting his gaze and adding, “It
is not for you to urge me to do anything.”

The rebuke surprised him. A flush of color spread around his neck
and up to his cheekbones.

Hana and Ai leaned forward very slightly and their gaze intensified.
The sun went behind clouds, darkening the room, and there was a
sudden rush of rain on the roof. The bamboo wind chimes rang
with a hollow note.

Akita said, “I apologize. Of course you must do as seems fitting to
you.”

“I will come to Inuyama in the spring,” she repeated. “You may tell
Lord Arai that. You are welcome to spend the night here, but I think
you will need to leave in the morning to get back before the snow.”

“Lady Shirakawa.” He bowed to the floor. As he shuffled out
backward she asked, “Who are your companions?” She spoke
abruptly, allowing impatience to creep into her voice, knowing
instinctively that she had dominated him. Something about the
scene, her sisters, her own demeanor, had cowed him. She could
almost smell it.

“My sister’s son, Sonoda Mitsuru, and three of my own retainers.”

“Leave your nephew here. He may enter my service for the winter
and escort us to Inuyama. He will be a guarantee of your good
faith.”

He stared at the ground, taken aback at the request; yet, she
thought with anger, any man in her position would have demanded
the same. With the young man in her household, his uncle would
be less likely to misrepresent her or otherwise betray her to Arai.

“Of course, trust between us is a symbol of my trust in Lord Arai,”
Kaede said, more impatiently, as he hesitated.

“I see no reason why he should not stay here,” Akita conceded.

I have a hostage, she thought, and marveled at the sense of power
it gave her.

She bowed to Akita, Hana and Ai copying her, while he prostrated
himself before them. Rain was still falling when he left, but the sun
had struggled out again, turning to fragmented rainbows the drops
of water that clung to the bare branches and the last of the autumn
leaves. She made a sign to her sisters not to move.

Before Akita entered the guest room, he turned to look back at
them. They sat motionless until he was out of sight. The sun
vanished and the rain streamed down.

Ayame stood from where she had been kneeling in the shadows
and closed the shutters. Kaede turned and hugged Hana.

“Did I do well?” Hana asked, her eyes lengthened and full of
emotion.

“It was brilliant, almost like magic. But what was that look between
you?”

“We should not have done it,” Ai said, ashamed. “It’s so childish.
We used to do it when Mother or Ayame was teaching us. Hana
started it. They never knew if they were imagining it or not. We
never dared do it in front of Father. And to do it to a great lord…”

“It just seemed to happen,” Hana said, laughing. “He didn’t like it,
did he? His eyes went all jumpy and he started to sweat.”

“He is hardly a great lord,” Kaede said. “Arai might have sent
someone of higher rank.”

“Would you have done what he asked, then? Would we have gone
back with him to Inuyama?”

“Even if Arai himself had come, I would not,” Kaede replied. “I will
always make them wait for me.”

“Do you want to know what else I noticed?” Hana said. I ell me.

“Lord Akita was afraid of you, Older Sister.”

“You have sharp eyes,” Kaede said, laughing.

“I don’t want to go away,” Ai said. “I never want to leave home.”

Kaede gazed at her sister with pity. “You will have to marry
someday. You may have to go to Inuyama next year and stay for a
while.”

“Will I have to?” Hana asked.

“Maybe,” Kaede said. “Lots of men will want to marry you.”

For the sake of an alliance with me, she thought, saddened that
she would have to use her sisters so.

“I’ll only go if Shizuka comes with us,” Hana declared.

Kaede smiled and hugged her again. There was no point in telling
her that Shizuka could never go in safety to Inuyama while Arai was
there. “Go and tell Shizuka to come to me. Ayame, you had better
see what meal we can give these men tonight.”

“I’m glad you told them to leave tomorrow,” Ayame said. “I don’t
think we could afford to feed them for longer. They are too used to
eating well.” She shook her head. “Though I have to say, Lady
Kaede, I don’t think your father would have approved of your
conduct.”

“You don’t have to say it,” Kaede retorted swiftly. “And if you want
to stay in this household, you will never speak to me like that
again.”

Ayame flinched at her tone. “Lady Shirakawa,” she said dully,
dropped to her knees, and crawled backward from the room.

Shizuka came in shortly, carrying a lamp, for dusk was now falling.
Kaede told her sisters to go and change their clothes.

“How much did you hear?” she demanded when they had gone.

“Enough, and Kondo told me what Lord Akita said when he went
back to the pavilion. He thought there was some supernatural
power at work in this house. You terrified him. He said you were
like the autumn spider, golden and deadly, weaving a web of
beauty to captivate men.”

“Quite poetic,” Kaede remarked.

“Yes, Kondo thought so too!”

Kaede could picture the ironic gleam in his eyes. One day, she
promised herself, he would look at her without irony. He would take
her seriously. They all would, all these men who thought they were
so powerful.

“And my hostage, Sonoda Mitsuru, is he terrified too?”

“Your hostage!” Shizuka laughed. “How did you dare suggest
that?”

“Was I wrong?”

“No, on the contrary, it made them believe you are much stronger
than was first thought. The young man is a little apprehensive about
being left here. Where do you intend to put him?”

“Shoji can take him in his house and look after him. I certainly don’t
want him here.” Kaede paused, then went on with a trace of
bitterness, “He will be better treated than I was. But what about
you? He will not be any danger to you, will he?”

“Arai must know I am still with you,” Shizuka said. “I see no danger
from this young man. His uncle, Lord Akita, will be careful not to
upset you now. Your strength protects me—all of us. Arai probably
expected to find you distraught and desperate for his help. He will
hear a very different story. I told you the birds would gather.”

“So, who do we expect next?”

“I believe someone will come from Maruyama before the onset of
winter, in response to the messengers Kondo sent.”

Kaede was hoping for the same thing, her mind often turning to her
last meeting with her kinswoman and the promise that had been
made then. Her father had told her she would have to fight for that
inheritance, but she hardly knew who her adversaries would be or
how to set about going to war. Who would teach her how to do it;
who would lead an army on her behalf?

She said farewell the next day to Akita and his men, thankful that
their stay was so short, and welcomed his nephew, summoning
Shoji and handing him over. She was aware of her effect on the
young man—he could not take his eyes off her and trembled in her
presence—but he did not interest her at all, other than as her
hostage.

“Keep him busy,” she told Shoji. “Treat him well and with respect,
but don’t let him know too much of our affairs.”

Over the next few weeks men began to turn up at her gate. Some
secret message had gone out that she was taking on warriors.
They came singly or in twos and threes, never in large groups, men
whose masters were dead or dispossessed, the straggling
remnants of years of war. She and Kondo devised tests for
them—she did not want rogues or fools—but they did not turn
many away, for most were experienced fighters who would form
the kernel of her army when spring came. Nevertheless, Kaede
despaired of being able to feed and keep them all through the long
winter.

A few days before the solstice, Kondo came to her with the news
she had been waiting for.

“Lord Sugita from Maruyama is here with several of his men.”

She welcomed them with delight. They revered the memory of
Lady Maruyama and were accustomed to seeing a woman as a
leader.

She was especially glad to see Sugita, remembering him from the
journey to Tsuwano. He had left them there to return home, to
ensure the domain was not attacked and taken over during Lady
Maruyama’s absence. Filled with grief at her death, he was
determined her wishes should be fulfilled. A man of great
practicality, he had also brought rice and other provisions with him.

“I will not add to your burdens,” he told Kaede. “They are not so
heavy that we cannot feed old friends,” she lied. “Everyone is
going to suffer this winter,” he replied gloomily. “The storms, Iida’s
death, Arai’s campaigns—the harvest is a fraction of what it should
be.”

Kaede invited him to eat with her, something she did with none of
the others, whom she left to Shoji and Kondo to look after. They
talked briefly about the events at Inuyama, and then at length about
the Maruyama inheritance. He treated Kaede with respect, colored
by an affectionate familiarity, as if he were an uncle or a cousin.
She felt at ease with him: He was not threatened by her but he took
her seriously.

When they had finished eating and the dishes had been cleared
away he said, “It was my lady’s desire to see her domain in your
care. I was delighted to receive your message that you intend to
take up your inheritance. I came at once to tell you that I will help
you; many of us will. We should start to plan our actions before
spring.”

“It is my intention, and I’ll need all the help I can get,” Kaede
replied. “I have no idea how to set about it. Will I be able simply to
take the lands over? Who do they belong to now?”

“They belong to you,” he said. “You are the next female heir, and it
was our lady’s express wish that the domain be yours. But several
other people lay claim to it: The main contender is Lady
Maruyama’s stepdaughter, who is married to a cousin of Lord Iida.
Arai has not been able to eradicate him, and he has quite a large
force: a mixture of Tohan who fled from Noguchi Castle when it
fell, and disaffected Seishuu who see no reason why they should
submit to Arai. They are wintering in the far west, but they will
march on Maruyama in the spring. If you do not move swiftly and
boldly, the domain will be fought over and destroyed.”

“I promised Lady Naomi that I would prevent that from happening,”
Kaede said, “but I didn’t know what I was promising or how to
achieve it.”

“There are many people willing to help you,” he said, leaning
forward and whispering: “I was sent by our council of elders to
request that you come to us, and soon. The domain prospered
under Lady Naomi; we all had enough to eat, and even the poorest
could feed their children. We traded with the mainland, mined silver
and copper, established many small industries. The alliance
between Lord Arai, Lord Otori Shigeru, and the Maruyama would
have extended that prosperity all the way into the Middle Country.
We want to save what we can of the alliance.”

“I plan to visit Lord Arai in the spring,” Kaede said. “I will formalize
our alliance then.”

“Then one of your terms must be that he supports you in your claim
to Maruyama. Only Arai is strong enough to dissuade the
stepdaughter and her husband to retire without fighting. And if it
comes to battle, only his army will be large enough to beat them.
You must move quickly; as soon as the roads are open again you
must go to In-uyama and then come to us, with Arai’s backing.”

He looked at her, smiled slightly, and said, “I am sorry, I do not
mean to seem to be commanding you in any way. But I hope you
will take my advice.”

“I will,” she said. “It is what I had already thought of doing, but with
your support I am encouraged in it.”

They went on to talk of how many men Sugita could raise, and he
swore he would hand over the domain to no one but her. He said
he would leave the next day, as he wanted to be back at Maruyama
before the new year. Then he said casually, “It’s a shame Otori
Takeo is dead. If you had married him, his name and the Otori
connection would have made you even stronger.”

Kaede’s heart seemed to stop beating and fall from her chest to
her stomach. “I had not heard of his death,” she said, trying to
keep her voice steady.

“Well, it’s only what people are saying. I don’t know any details. I
suppose it’s the obvious explanation for his disappearance. It may
be only a rumor.”

“Maybe,” Kaede said, while thinking silently, Or maybe he is dead
in an open field or on the mountain and I will never know. “I am
growing tired, Lord Sugita. Forgive me.”

“Lady Shirakawa.” He bowed to her and stood. “We’ll keep in touch
as much as the weather allows. I will expect you at Maruyama in the
spring; the clan’s forces will support your claim. If anything
changes, I will get word to you somehow.”

She promised to do the same, impatient for him to be gone. When
he had left and she was sure he was safely inside the guest
pavilion, she called for Shizuka, paced up and down, and when the
girl came she seized her with both hands.

“Are you keeping something from me?”

“Lady?” Shizuka looked at her in surprise. “What do you mean?
What’s happened?”

“Sugita said he’d heard Takeo was dead.”

“It’s just a rumor.”

“But you’ve heard it?”

“Yes. I don’t believe it, though. If he were dead, we would have
been told. You look so pale! Sit down. You must not overtire
yourself; you must not get sick again. I’ll prepare the beds.”

She led her from the main room into the room where they slept.
Kaede sank to the floor, her heart still thudding. “I am so afraid he
will die before I see him again.”

Shizuka knelt beside her, untied her sash, and helped her out of
the formal robes she had been wearing.

“I’ll massage your head. Sit still.”

Kaede was restlessly moving her head from side to side, clutching
her hair, clenching and unclenching her fists. Shizuka’s hands in
her hair did not soothe her; they simply reminded her of the
unbearable afternoon at Inuyama and the events that followed. She
was shivering.

“You must find out, Shizuka; I must know for sure. Send a
message to your uncle. Send Kondo. He must leave at once.”

“I thought you were beginning to forget him,” Shizuka murmured,
her hands working at Kaede’s scalp.

“I cannot forget him. I’ve tried, but as soon as I hear his name, it all
returns to me. Do you remember the day I first saw him at
Tsuwano? I fell in love with him at that moment. A fever came over
me. It was—it is—an enchantment, a sickness from which I can
never be cured. You said we would get over it, but we never will.”

Her brow was burning beneath Shizuka’s fingers. Alarmed, the girl
asked, “Shall I send for Ishida?”

“I am tormented by desire,” Kaede said in a low voice. “Dr. Ishida
can do nothing for that.”

“Desire is simple enough to alleviate,” Shizuka replied calmly.

“But my desire is only for him. Nothing—no one else—can relieve
it. I know I must try to live without him. I have duties to my family
that I must—I will—carry out. But if he is dead, you must tell me.”

“I will write to Kenji,” Shizuka promised. “I’ll send Kondo tomorrow,
though we cannot really spare him…”

“Send him,” Kaede said.

Shizuka made an infusion from the willow twigs that Ishida had left,
and persuaded Kaede to drink it, but her sleep was restless and in
the morning she was listless and feverish.

Ishida came, applied mugwort and used his needles, rebuking her
gently for not taking better care of herself.

“It’s not serious,” he told Shizuka when they stepped outside. “It
will pass in a day or two. She is too sensitive and makes too many
demands on herself. She should marry.”

“She will only agree to marry one man—and that is impossible,”
Shizuka said.

“The father of the child?”

Shizuka nodded. “Yesterday she heard a rumor that he was dead.
The fever started then.”

“Ah.” His eyes had a thoughtful, faraway look. She wondered what
or whom he was remembering from his youth.

“I fear the coming months,” she said. “Once we are closed in by
snow, I am afraid she will begin to brood.”

“I have a letter for her from Lord Fujiwara. He would like her to visit
him and stay for a few days. The change of scene may help to lift
her spirits and distract her.”

“Lord Fujiwara is too kind to this house and pays us too great an
attention.” Shizuka used the formal words of thanks automatically
as she took the letter. She was acutely aware of the man next to
her, of their hands touching briefly. The distant look in his eyes had
sparked something in her. During Kaede’s illness they had spent
many hours

S

together, and she had come to admire his patience and skill. He
was kind, unlike most men she had known.

“Will you come again tomorrow?” she said, glancing at him.

“Of course. You can give me Lady Kaede’s reply to the letter. You
will accompany her to Lord Fujiwaras?”

“Of course!” She repeated his words playfully. He smiled and
touched her again, deliberately, on the arm. The pressure of his
fingers made her shiver. It was so long since she had slept with a
man. She had a sudden strong desire to feel his hands all over her
body; she wanted to lie down with him and hold him. He deserved it
for his kindness.

“Till tomorrow,” he said, his eyes warm, as if he had recognized
her feelings and shared them.

She slipped into her sandals and ran to call the servants with the
palanquin.

Kaede’s fever subsided, and by evening she had recovered some
of her energy. She had lain still all day, warm under a huge pile of
quilts, next to the brazier that Ayame had insisted on lighting,
thinking about the future. Takeo might be dead; the child certainly
was. Her heart wanted only to follow them to the next world, but her
reason told her it would be sheer weakness to throw her life away
and abandon those who depended on her. A woman might act like
that; a man in her position never would.

Shizuka is right, she thought, there is only one person I know who
can help me now. I must see what arrangement I can come to with
Fujiwara.

Shizuka gave her the letter that Ishida had brought that morning.
Fujiwara had also sent gifts for the new year, specially shaped rice
cakes, dried sardines and sweetened chestnuts, rolled kelp and
rice wine. Hana and Ai were busy in the kitchen, helping to prepare
for the festival.

“He flatters me; he writes in men’s language saying he knows I
understand it,” Kaede said. “But there are so many characters I
don’t know.” She sighed deeply. “There’s so much I need to learn.
Is one winter going to be enough?”

“Will you go to Lord Fujiwaras?”

“I suppose so. He might teach me. Do you think he would?”

“There’s nothing he’d like more,” Shizuka said dryly.

“I thought he would want nothing more to do with me, but he says
he has been waiting for my recovery. I am better—as well as I will
ever be.” Kaede’s voice was doubtful. “I must be better. I have to
look after my sisters, my land, my men.”

“As I’ve said many times, Fujiwara is your best ally in this.”

“Maybe not the best: the only. But I don’t really trust him. What
does he want from me?”

“What do you want from him!” Shizuka replied.

“That’s simple: on the one hand, learning; on the other, money and
food to raise an army and feed it. But what do I offer him in return?”

Shizuka wondered if she should mention Fujiwara’s desire for
marriage, but decided against it, fearing it would disturb Kaede to
the point of fever again. Let the nobleman speak for himself. She
was sure he would.

“He addresses me as Lady Shirakawa. I am ashamed to face him,
after deceiving him.”

“He will have learned of your father’s wishes regarding your name,”
Shizuka said. “Everyone knows that your father named you as his
heir before his death. We have made sure of that.”

L 1 A N H E A R N

Kaede glanced at her to see if she was mocking her, but Shizuka’s
face was serious. “Of course, I had to do as my father requested,”
Kaede agreed.

“There is nothing else Lord Fujiwara needs to know, then. Filial
obedience comes before everything.”

“So K’ung Fu-Tzu tells me,” Kaede said. “Lord Fujiwara needs to
know nothing else but I suspect he wants to know a great deal
more. If he is still interested in me, that is.”

“He will be,” Shizuka assured her, thinking that Kaede was more
beautiful than ever. Her illness and grief had removed the last
traces of childishness from her and had given her expression
depth and mystery.

They celebrated the new year with Fujiwara’s gifts, and ate
buckwheat noodles, and black beans that Ayame had put away at
the end of the summer. At midnight they went to the temple and
listened to the priests’ chanting and the bells’ tolling for the
extinction of human passions. Kaede knew she should pray to be
freed from them all and to be purified, but found herself asking for
what she most desired— for Takeo to be alive—and then for
money and power.

The following day the women of the household took candles,
incense, and lanterns, wrinkled mandarins, sweet chestnuts, and
dried persimmons, and went to the caves where the Shirakawa
river emerged from a series of underground caverns. Here they
performed their own ceremonies before the rock that the water had
turned into the shape of the White Goddess. No men were ever
supposed to come into this place; if they did, the mountain might
fall and the Shirakawa might be extinguished. An aged couple lived
behind the shrine at the entrance to the cave; only the old woman
went inside to take offerings to the goddess. Kaede knelt on the
damp rock, listening to the ancient voice mumble words she hardly
knew the meaning of. She thought of her mother and Lady
Maruyama and asked for their help and their

I

intercession. She realized how much this holy place meant to her,
and she felt that the goddess was watching over her.

The next day she went to Lord Fujiwara’s. Hana was bitterly
disappointed at being left behind, and wept when she had to say
goodbye not only to Kaede but also to Shizuka.

“It’s only for a few days,” Kaede said.

“Why can’t I come with you?”

“Lord Fujiwara did not invite you. Besides, you would hate it there.
You would have to behave properly, speak in formal language, and
sit still most of the day.”

“Will you hate it?”

“I expect I will,” Kaede sighed.

“At least you will eat delicious food,” Hana said, adding longingly,
Quail!

“If we are eating his food, there will be more for you here,” Kaede
replied. It was in fact one of the reasons she was happy to be away
for a while, for no matter how many times she looked at the food
stores and calculated the days of winter, it remained obvious that
they would run out of food before spring.

“And someone has to entertain young Mitsuru,” Shizuka added.
“You must make sure he is not too homesick.”

“Ai can do that,” Hana retorted. “He likes Ai.”

Kaede had noticed the same thing. Her sister had not admitted any
affection in return, but she was shy about such matters—and
anyway, Kaede thought, what difference did her feelings make? Ai
would have to be betrothed soon. The new year had seen her turn
fourteen. It might be that Sonoda Mitsuru, if his uncle were to adopt
him, would be a good match, but she would not relinquish her
sister cheaply.

In a year they will be lining up for marriages with the Shirakawa, she
told herself.

Ai had colored a little at Hana’s remark. “Take care of yourself,
Older Sister,” she said, embracing Kaede. “Don’t worry about us.
I’ll look after everything here.”

“We are not far away,” Kaede replied. “You must send for me if
you think I am needed.” She could not help adding, “And if any
messages come for me—if Kondo returns—let me know at once.”

They arrived at Lord Fujiwara’s in the early afternoon. The day had
begun mild and overcast, but even as they traveled the wind swung
to the northeast and the temperature dropped.

Mamoru met them, conveyed the nobleman’s greetings, and led
them, not to the guest rooms where they had stayed before, but to
another, smaller pavilion, less ornately decorated but to Kaede’s
eyes even more beautiful with its elegant simplicity and muted
colors. She was grateful for this thoughtfulness, for she had been
dreading seeing her father’s angry ghost in the room where her
secret had been revealed to him.

“Lord Fujiwara thought Lady Shirakawa would prefer to rest this
evening,” Mamoru said quietly. “He will receive you tomorrow, if
that is agreeable to you.”

“Thank you” Kaede said. “Please tell Lord Fujiwara I am
completely at his service. I will do whatever he desires.”

She was already aware of tension. Mamoru had used her name
without hesitation—had glanced at her swiftly when she arrived, as
if trying to discern any change in her, but since then had not looked
at her at all. However, she knew already how much he saw of her
without appearing to. She straightened her back and gazed at him
with a hint of disdain in her expression. Let him study her all he
liked as a subject for the roles he played onstage. He would never
be other than a counterfeit of what she was. She did not care what
he thought of her. But she did care what Fujiwara thought. He must
despise me, she told

So

herself, but if be shows it by so much as a flicker of one eyebrow,
I’ll leave and never see him again, no matter what he might do for
me.

She was relieved that the meeting was to be postponed. Ishida
paid them a call and checked her pulse and eyes. He told her he
would prepare a new sort of tea that would purify the blood and
strengthen the stomach, and asked her to send Shizuka to his
rooms the following day to collect it.

A hot bath had been prepared, making Kaede warm not only from
the water but also with envy at the amount of wood available to heat
it. Afterward food was brought to their room by maids who hardly
spoke at all.

“It is the traditional ladies’ winter meal,” Shizuka exclaimed when
she saw the delicacies of the season, raw sea bream and squid,
broiled eel with green perilla and horseradish, pickled cucumbers
and salted lotus root, rare black mushrooms and burdock, laid out
on the lacquer trays. “This is what they would eat in the capital. I
wonder how many other women in the Three Countries are eating
something this exquisite tonight!”

“Everything is exquisite here,” Kaede replied. How easy it is, she
thought, to have luxury and taste when you have money!

They had finished eating and were thinking about retiring, when
there was a tap outside the door.

“The maids have come to prepare the beds,” Shizuka said and
went to the door. But when she slid it open, it was Mamoru who
stood outside. There was snow on his hair.

“Forgive me,” he said, “but the first snow of the year has begun to
fall. Lord Fujiwara wishes to visit Lady Shirakawa. The view from
this pavilion is particularly fine.”

“This is Lord Fujiwara’s house,” Kaede said. “I am his guest.
Whatever is his pleasure is mine also.”

S

Mamoru left and she heard him speak to the maids. A few
moments later two of them came to the room with warm red quilted
robes, which they dressed her in. Accompanied by Shizuka, she
went out onto the veranda. Animal skins had been placed over
cushions for them to sit on. Lanterns had been hung from the
trees, lighting the falling flakes. The ground was already white. A
garden of rocks lay under two pine trees that grew in low,
beautifully trained patterns, framing the view. Behind them the dull
mass of the mountain was just visible through the swirling snow.
Kaede was silent, transfixed by the beauty of the scene, its silent
purity.

Moving so quietly that they hardly heard him, Lord Fujiwara
approached them. They both knelt before him.

“Lady Shirakawa,” he said. “I am so grateful to you, first for
condescending to visit my humble place, and second for indulging
my whim to share the first snow viewing with you.

“Please sit up,” he added. “You must wrap yourself up well; you
must not catch cold.”

Servants filed behind him bringing braziers, flasks of wine, cups,
and furs. Mamoru took one of the furs and placed it over her
shoulders, then wrapped another around Fujiwara as he sat beside
her. Kaede stroked the pelt with a mixture of delight and revulsion.

“They come from the mainland,” Fujiwara told her after they had
exchanged formal greetings. “Ishida brings them back when he
goes on his expeditions there.”

“What animal is it?”

“Some kind of bear, I believe.”

She could not imagine a bear so large. She tried to picture it in its
native land, so distant and foreign to her. It would be powerful,
slow-moving, ferocious, yet men had killed and skinned it. She
wondered if its spirit still dwelled somehow in the skin and if it
would resent

S

her wearing its warmth. She shivered. “Dr. Ishida is brave as well
as

o

clever, to go on such dangerous journeys.“

“He has an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, it seems. Of
course, it has all been rewarded by Lady Shirakawa’s recovery.”

“I owe him my life,” she said in a low voice.

“Then he is even more precious to me than on his own account.”

She detected his usual irony, but no contempt. Indeed, he could
hardly be more flattering.

“How lovely the first snow is,” she said. “Yet, by the end of winter
we long for it to melt.”

“Snow pleases me,” he said. “I like its whiteness and the way it
wraps the world. Beneath it everything becomes clean.”

Mamoru poured wine and passed it to them. Then he vanished into
the shadows. The servants withdrew. They were not really alone,
but there was an illusion of solitude, as though nothing existed but
the two of them, the glowing braziers, the heavy animal furs, and
the snow.

After they had watched it in silence for a while, Fujiwara called to
the servants to bring more lamps.

“I want to see your face,” he said, leaning forward and studying her
in the same hungry way he had gazed on his treasures. Kaede
raised her eyes and looked past him at the snow, now falling more
thickly, swirling in the light from the lanterns, blocking out the
mountains, blurring the outside world.

“Possibly more beautiful than ever,” he said quietly. She thought
she detected a note of relief in his voice. She knew that if her
illness had marred her in any way, he would have withdrawn politely
and would never have seen her again. They could all have starved
to death at Shirakawa with no gesture of compassion or help from
him. How cold he is, she thought, and felt her own body chill in
response; yet, she made no sign of it, just continued to gaze past
him, letting the snow fill her eyes and dazzle her. She would be
cold, like ice, like celadon. And if he wanted to possess her, he
would pay the highest price.

He drank, filled his cup, and drank again, his eyes never leaving her
face. Neither of them spoke. Finally he said abruptly, “Of course
you will have to marry.”

“I have no intention of marrying,” Kaede replied, and then feared
she had spoken too bluntly.

“I imagined you would say that, since you always hold a different
opinion to the world. But in all practical terms you must be married.
There is no alternative.”

“My reputation is very unfavorable,” Kaede said. “Too many men
connected with me have perished. I do not want to be the cause of
any more deaths.”

She felt his interest deepen, noticed the curve of his mouth
increase slightly. Yet, it was not with desire for her; she knew that. It
was the same emotion she had caught a whiff of before: a burning
curiosity, carefully controlled, to know all her secrets.

He called to Mamoru, telling him to send the servants away and
retire himself.

“Where is your woman?” he said to Kaede. “Tell her to wait for you
inside. I want to speak to you privately.”

Kaede spoke to Shizuka. After a pause Fujiwara went on, “Are you
warm enough? You must not be ill again. Ishida tells me you are
prone to sudden fevers.”

Of course, Ishida would tell him everything about me, Kaede
thought as she replied, “Thank you, I am warm enough for the
moment. But Lord Fujiwara will forgive me i{ I do not stay up long. I
tire very easily.”

“We will talk for a little while,” he said. “We have many weeks
before us, I hope—all winter, in fact. But there is something about
this

S

night, the snow, your presence here… it’s a memory that will stay
with us all our lives.“

He wants to marry me, Kaede thought with a sense of shock,
followed by deep unease. If he offered marriage, how could she
refuse? To use his own phrase in all practical terms, it made
perfect sense. It was a far greater honor than she deserved; it
would solve all her problems of money and food; it was a highly
desirable alliance. Yet, she knew his preference was for men; he
neither loved nor desired her. She prayed he would not speak, for
she did not see how she could refuse him. She was afraid of the
strength of his will, which always took what it wanted and always
had its own way. She doubted her own strength to deny him. Not
only would it be an unthinkable insult to someone of his rank, but he
fascinated her as much as he alarmed her and this gave him a
power over her that she barely understood.

“I have never seen a bear,” she said, hoping to change the subject,
drawing the heavy skin closer around her.

“We have small bears here in the mountains; one came to the
garden once after a particularly long winter. I had it captured and
caged for a while, but it pined and died. It was nothing like this size.
Ishida will tell us of his travels one day. Would you like that?”

“Very much. He is the only person I know who has ever been to the
mainland.”

“It’s a dangerous voyage. Quite apart from the storms, there are
often encounters with pirates.”

At that moment, Kaede felt she would rather meet a dozen bears
or twenty pirates than remain with this unnerving man. She could
think of nothing else to say. Indeed, she felt powerless to move at
all.

“Mamoru and Ishida have both told me what people say about you,
that desire for you brings death.”

Kaede said nothing. I will not be ashamed, she thought. I have
done nothing wrong. She lifted her eyes and looked at him directly,
her face calm, her gaze steady.

“Yet, from what Ishida tells me, one man who desired you escaped
death.”

She felt her heart twist and jump, like a fish when it finds its living
flesh pierced by the cook’s knife. His eyes flickered. A small
muscle twitched in his cheek. He looked away from her at the
snow. He is asking what should not be asked, she thought. I will tell
him, but he will pay a price Jor it. As she saw his weakness, she
became aware of her own power. Her courage began to return.

“Who was it?” he whispered.

The night was silent, apart from the soft drift of snow, the wind in
the pines, the murmur of water.

“Lord OtoriTakeo,” she said.

“Yes, it could only be him,” he replied, making her wonder what she
had given away before and what he knew about Takeo now. He
leaned forward, his face moving into the lamplight. “Tell me about
it.”

“I could tell you many things,” she said slowly. “About Lord
Shigeru’s betrayal and death and Lord Takeo’s revenge and what
happened the night Iida died and Inuyama fell. But every story
comes at a price. What will you give me in return?”

He smiled and in a tone of complicity said, “What does Lady
Shirakawa desire?”

“I need money to hire men and equip them, and food for my
household.”

He came close to laughing. “Most women your age would ask for a
new fan or a robe. But you are always able to surprise me.”

“Do you accept my price?” She felt she had nothing to lose now
from boldness.

“Yes, I do. For Iida, money; for Shigeru, bushels of rice. And for
the living one—I assume he still lives—what shall I pay you for
Takeo’s story?”

His voice changed as he spoke the name, as though he were
tasting it in his mouth, and she wondered again what he had heard
about Takeo.

“Teach me,” she said. “There are so many things I need to know.
Teach me as if I were a boy.”

He inclined his head in agreement. “It will be a pleasure to continue
your father’s instruction.”

“But everything must be kept secret between us. Like the treasures
of your collection, nothing must be exposed. I will divulge these
things only for your gaze. No one else must ever be told them.”

“That makes them all the more precious, all the more desirable.”

“No one else has ever heard them,” Kaede whispered. “And once I
have told you, I will never speak of them again.”

The wind had risen a little, and a flurry of snow blew onto the
veranda, the flakes hissing as they hit the lamps and the braziers.
Kaede could feel cold creeping over her, meeting her coldness of
heart and spirit. She longed to leave him; yet, knew she could not
move until he released her.

“You are cold,” he said, and clapped his hands. The servants
appeared out of the shadows and helped Kaede to her feet, lifting
the heavy fur from her.

“I look forward to your stories,” he said, wishing her good night with
unusual warmth. But Kaede found herself wondering if she had not
made a pact with a demon from hell. She prayed he would not ask
her to marry him. She would never allow him to cage her in this
luxurious beautiful house, concealed like a treasure, to be gazed
on only by him.

At the end of the week she returned home. The first snow had
melted and frozen, and the road was icy but passable. Icicles hung
from the eaves of the houses, dripping in the sun, glistening and
brilliant. Fujiwara had kept his word. He was a rigorous and
demanding teacher and set her tasks to practice before she
returned to his house again. He had already dispatched food for
her household and men.

The days had been spent in study and the nights in storytelling.
She knew by instinct what he wanted to hear, and she told him
details she had not known she remembered: the color of flowers,
the birds’ song, the exact condition of the weather, the touch of a
hand, the smell of a robe, the way lamplight fell on a face. And the
undercurrents of desire and conspiracy that she had both known
and not known, and that only now became clear to her with the
telling. She told him everything, in a clear measured voice, showing
neither shame, grief, nor regret.

He was reluctant to allow her to return home, but she used her
sisters as an excuse. He wanted her to stay there forever, she
knew, and she fought that desire silently. Yet, it seemed that
everyone shared it. The servants expected it and their treatment of
her changed slightly. They deferred to her as though she were
already more than a specially favored guest. They sought her
permission, her opinion, and she knew they would only do so if he
had so ordered.

She felt deep relief when she left him and she dreaded returning
again. But when she was home, she saw the food, the firewood,
and the money he had sent, and was grateful that he had kept her
family from starving. That night she lay thinking, I am trapped. I
shall never escape him. Yet what else can I do?

It was a long time before she slept, and she was late rising the next
morning. Shizuka was not in the room when she awoke. Kaede
called to her, and Ayame came in with tea.

She poured Kaede a cup. “Shizuka is with Kondo,” she said. “He
returned late last night.”

“Tell her to come to me,” Kaede said. She looked at the tea as
though she did not know what to do with it. She sipped a mouthful,
placed the cup on the tray, then picked it up. Her hands were icy.
She held the cup between them, trying to warm them.

“Lord Fujiwara sent this tea,” Ayame said. “A whole box of it. Isn’t it
delicious?”

“Fetch Shizuka!” Kaede cried angrily. “Tell her to come to me at
once!”

A few minutes later Shizuka came into the room and knelt in front
of Kaede. Her face was somber.

“What is it?” Kaede asked, “Is he dead?” The cup began to shake
in her hands, spilling the tea.

Shizuka took it from her and held her hands tightly. “You must not
be distressed. You must not become ill. He is not dead. But he has
left the Tribe, and they have issued an edict against him.”

“What does that mean?”

“You remember what he told you at Terayama? If he did not go
with them, they would not allow him to live. It is the same.”

“Why?” Kaede said. “Why? I don’t understand.”

“It’s the way the Tribe are. Obedience is everything to them.”

“So why would he leave them?”

“It’s not clear. There was some altercation, some disagreement.
He was sent on a mission and never came back from it.” Shizuka
paused. “Kondo thinks he may be at Terayama. If he is, he will be
safe there for the winter.”

Kaede pulled her hands away from Shizuka and stood. “I must go
there.”

“It’s impossible,” Shizuka said. “It’s already closed off by snow.”

“I must see him!” Kaede said, her eyes blazing in her pale face. “If
he has left the Tribe, he will become Otori again. If he is Otori, we
can marry!”

“Lady!” Shizuka stood too. “What madness is this? You cannot just
take after him like that! Even if the roads were open it would be
unthinkable. Better by far, to marry Fujiwara, if you want what you
say you want. It is what he desires.”

Kaede struggled to regain control of herself. “There is nothing to
stop me from going to Terayama. Indeed, I should go there… on a
pilgrimage… to give thanks to the all-merciful one for saving my
life. I have promised to go to Inuyama, to Arai, as soon as the
snows melt. I shall go to the temple on the way. Even if Lord
Fujiwara does want to marry me, I can do nothing without
consulting Lord Arai. Oh, Shizuka, how long is it till spring?” he
winter days crawled past. Every month Kaede went to Lord
Fujiwara’s residence, stayed for a week, and recounted the story of
her life, at night while the snow fell or the moon shone coldly on the
frozen garden. He asked many questions and made her repeat
many parts.

“It could be the subject of a drama,” he said more than once.
“Maybe I should try my hand at writing such a thing.”

“You would never be able to show it to anyone,” she replied. “No,
the delight would be in the writing alone. I would share it with you,
of course. We might have it acted once for our pleasure and then
have the actors put to death.”

He often made comments like this, with no trace of emotion,
alarming her more and more, though she kept her fears hidden.
With each retelling her face became more masklike, her
movements more studied, as though she were endlessly acting out
her life on a stage he had created as carefully as the perfectly
constructed theater where Mamoru and the other young men
played their roles.

During the day he kept his promise to teach her as if she were a
boy. He used men’s language with her and made her speak it to
him. It amused him sometimes to see her dressed in Mamoru’s
clothes, with her hair tied back. The role-playing exhausted her. But
she learned.

Fujiwara kept his other promises, having food delivered to her
house and money handed over to Shizuka at the end of each visit.
Kaede counted it with the same avidity with which she studied. She
saw them both as equal currency for her future, giving her freedom
and power.

In early spring there was a bitter snap of cold weather that froze the
plum blossoms on the branches. Kaede’s impatience grew with the
lengthening days; the increased cold and harder frosts, followed
by fresh snow, nearly drove her mad. She could feel her mind,
frantic like a bird trapped inside the house; yet, she did not dare
share her feelings with anyone, not even with Shizuka.

On sunny days she went to the stables and watched Raku when
Amano let the horses out to gallop in the water meadows. The
horse often seemed to look questioningly toward the northeast,
tasting the sharp wind.

“Soon,” she promised him. “Soon we will be on our way.”

Finally the full moon of the third month turned and brought with it a
warm wind from the south. Kaede woke to the sound of water
dripping from the eaves, trickling through the garden, racing down
the waterfalls. In three days the snow was gone. The world lay bare
and muddy, waiting to be filled with sound and color again.

“I have to go away for a while,” she told Fujiwara on her last visit. “I
have been summoned by Lord Arai to Inuyama.”

“You will seek his permission to marry?”

“It is something that must be discussed with him before I can make
any decisions,” she murmured.

“Then I will let you go.” His lips curved slightly but the smile did not
reach his eyes.

For the last month she had been making preparations, waiting for
the thaw, thankful for Fujiwara’s money. Within a week she left on a
cold, bright morning, the sun appearing and disappearing behind
racing clouds, the wind from the east, keen and bracing. Hana had
begged to be allowed to come, and at first Kaede intended to take
her. But a fear grew in her that once they were at Inuyama, Arai
might keep her sister as a hostage. For the time being, Hana was
safer at home. She hardly admitted even to herself that if Takeo
were at Ter-ayama, she might never go on to the capital. Ai did not
want to come, and Kaede left her hostage, Mitsuru, with Shoji, as a
guarantee for her own safety.

She took Kondo, Amano, and six other men. She wanted to move
quickly, always aware of how short a life might be and how
precious every hour was. She put on men’s garments and rode
Raku. He had wintered well, hardly losing any weight, and he
stepped out with an eagerness that equaled hers. He was already
shedding his winter coat, and the rough gray hair clung to her
clothes.

Shizuka accompanied her, along with one of the maids from the
house, Manami. Shizuka had decided she would go at least as far
as Terayama and, while Kaede went on to the capital, she would
visit her grandparents’ home, in the mountains behind Yamagata, to
see her sons. Manami was a sensible and practical woman who
quickly took it upon herself to supervise their meals and lodging at
the inns along the road, demanding hot food and water, disputing
prices, cowing innkeepers, and always getting her own way.

“I won’t have to worry about who’ll look after you when I leave

L 1 A N H E A R N

you,“ Shizuka said on the third night, after hearing Manami scold
the innkeeper for providing inferior, flea-ridden bedding. ”I think
Man-ami’s tongue would stop an ogre in its tracks.“

“I’ll miss you,” Kaede said. “I think you are my courage. I don’t
know how brave I can be without you. And who will tell me what is
really happening beneath all the lies and the pretense?”

“I think you can discern that well enough for yourself,” Shizuka
replied. “Besides, Kondo will be with you. You will make a better
impression on Arai without me!”

“What should I expect from Arai?”

“He has always taken your part. He will continue to champion you.
He is generous and loyal, except when he feels he has been
slighted or deceived.”

“He is impulsive, I thought,” Kaede said.

“Yes, to the point of rashness. He is hot in every sense of the
word, passionate and stubborn.”

“You loved him very much?” Kaede said.

“I was only a girl. He was my first lover. I was deeply in love with
him, and he must have loved me after his own fashion. He kept me
with him for fourteen years.”

“I will plead with him to forgive you,” Kaede exclaimed.

“I don’t know which I fear most, his forgiveness or his rage,”
Shizuka admitted, thinking of Dr. Ishida and the discreet, entirely
satisfactory affair they had been conducting all winter.

“Then maybe I should not mention you at all.”

“It’s usually better to say nothing,” Shizuka agreed. “Anyway, his
main concern will be with your marriage and the alliances that may
be made by it.”

“I will not marry until I have secured Maruyama,” Kaede replied.
“First he must assist me in that.”

But first I must see Takeo, she thought. If he is not at Terayama, I
will forget him. It will be a sign that it is not meant to be. Oh,
merciful heaven, let him be there!

As the road ascended farther into the mountain range, the thaw
was less apparent. Drifts of unmelted snow still covered the paths
in places, and often there was ice underfoot. The horses’ feet were
wrapped in straw, but their progress was slow and Kaede’s
impatience intensified.

Finally, late one afternoon, they arrived at the inn at the foot of the
holy mountain, where Kaede had rested when she had first visited
the temple with Lady Maruyama. Here they would stay the night
before making the final ascent the next day.

Kaede slept fitfully, her mind full of the companions from her
previous journey, whose names were now entered in the ledgers
of the dead. She recalled the day they had ridden out together,
how light-hearted everyone had seemed while they had been
planning assassination and civil war. She had known nothing of
that; she had been a green girl nursing a secret love. She felt a
wave of scornful pity for that innocent, guileless self. She had
changed completely, but the love had not changed.

The light was paling behind the shutters, and birds were calling.
The room seemed unbearably stuffy. Manami was snoring slightly.
Kaede got up quietly, pulled on a quilted robe, and slid open the
door to the courtyard. From behind the wall she could hear the
horses stamping on their lines. She heard one of them give a
whicker of recognition. The men must be up already, she thought,
and heard footsteps turn through the gate,. She stepped behind
the shutter again.

Everything was misty and indistinct in the dawn light. A figure came
into the courtyard. She thought, It’s him. She thought, It cannot be.

Takeo came out of the mist toward her.

She stepped onto the veranda, and as he recognized her she saw
the look that swept across his face. She thought, with gratitude and
relief, It’s all right. He’s alive. He loves me.

He came up onto the veranda silently and fell on his knees before
her. She knelt too. “Sit up,” she whispered.

He did so, and they stared at each other for several moments, she
as if she would drink him in, he obliquely, not meeting her gaze.
They sat awkwardly, so much between them.

Takeo said finally, “I saw my horse. I knew you must be here, but I
couldn’t believe it.”

“I heard you were here. In great danger, but alive.”

“The danger is not so great,” he said. “My greatest danger is from
you—that you cannot forgive me.”

“I can’t not forgive you,” she replied simply. “As long as you don’t
leave me again.”

“I was told you were to be married. I have been afraid of it all
winter.”

“There is someone who wants to marry me: Lord Fujiwara. But we
are not married yet, not even betrothed.”

“Then we must marry immediately. Are you here to visit the
temple?”

“That was my intention. Then I was to go on to Inuyama.” She was
studying his face. He looked older, the bones more pronounced,
the mouth more determined. His hair, shorter than it had been, was
not pulled back in the warrior style but fell against his forehead,
thick and glossy.

“I’ll send men to escort you up the mountain. I’ll come to the
women’s rooms in the temple this evening. We have so much to
plan. Don’t look in my eyes,” he added. “I don’t want you to fall
asleep.”

“I don’t mind,” she replied. “Sleep rarely comes to me. Send me to
sleep until this evening, then the hours will pass quickly. When I
slept before, the White Goddess came to me in a vision. She told
me to be patient, to wait for you. I am here to thank her for it and for
saving my life.”

“I was told you were dying,” he said, and could not continue. After
a few moments he spoke with an effort. “Is Muto Shizuka with
you?”

“Yes.”

“And you have a retainer from the Tribe, Kondo Küchi?”

She nodded.

“They must be sent away. Leave your other men here for the time
being. Do you have another woman to accompany you?”

“Yes,” Kaede said. “But I don’t think Shizuka would do anything to
harm you.” Even as she spoke, she thought, But how do I know?
Can I trust Shizuka? Or Kondo, come to that. I have seen his
ruthlessness.

“I am under sentence of death from the Tribe,” Takeo said.
“Therefore any one of them is a danger to me.”

“Isn’t it dangerous for you to be out like this?”

He smiled. “I’ve never let anyone confine me. I like to explore
places at night. I need to know the terrain, and if the Otori are
planning to attack me across the border. I was on my way back
when I saw Raku. He recognized me. Did you hear him?”

“He has been waiting for you too,” she said, and felt sorrow uncurl
in her belly. “Does everyone want your death?”

“They are not going to succeed. Not yet. I’ll tell you why tonight.”

She longed for him to hold her. She could feel her body leaning
toward him. In the same moment he responded and took her in his
arms. She felt his heart beat, his lips against her neck. Then he
whispered, “Someone’s awake. I must go.”

She could hear nothing. Takeo pulled gently away from her. “Till
this evening,” he said.

V

She looked at him, seeking his gaze, half hoping to be plunged into
sleep, but he had gone. She cried out in alarm. There was no sign
of him in the courtyard or beyond. The wind chimes rang out
sharply as if in the breath of someone passing beneath them. Her
heart was pounding. Had it been his ghost that had come to her?
Had she been dreaming, and what would she find when she
awoke?

“What are you doing out here, lady?” Manami’s voice was shrill with
concern. “You’ll catch your death of cold.”

Kaede pulled the robe around her. She was indeed shivering. “I
could not sleep,” she said slowly. “I had a dream…”

“Go inside. I’ll send for tea.” Manami stepped into her sandals and
hurried away across the courtyard.

Swallows darted to and from the eaves. Kaede smelled wood
smoke as the fires were lit. The horses whinnied as they were fed.
She heard Raku’s voice as she had heard it earlier. The air was
sharp, but she could smell blossoms. She felt her heart swell with
hope. It had not been a dream. He was here. In a few hours they
would be together. She did not want to go inside. She wanted to
stay where she was, remembering his look, his touch, his smell.

Manami came back, carrying a tray with tea and cups on it. She
scolded Kaede again, and chivied her into the room. Shizuka was
getting dressed. She took one look at Kaede and exclaimed,
“You’ve seen Takeo?”

Kaede did not reply immediately. She took a cup of tea from
Manami and drank it slowly. She felt she had to be careful what she
said: Shizuka was from the Tribe, who had placed Takeo under
sentence of death. She had assured Takeo that Shizuka would not
harm him, but how could she be certain of that? However, she
found she could not control her expression, could not stop smiling,
as if the mask had cracked and fallen away.

“I am going to the temple,” she said. “I must get ready. Manami will
come with me. Shizuka, you may leave now to see your sons, and
you can take Kondo with you.”

“I thought Kondo was to go with you to Inuyama,” Shizuka said.

“I have changed my mind. He must go with you. And you must both
leave at once, now.”

“These are Takeo’s orders, I suppose,” Shizuka said. “You cannot
pretend to me. I know you have seen him.”

“I told him you would not harm him,” Kaede said. “You would not?”

Shizuka said sharply, “Better not to ask that. If I do not see him, I
cannot harm him. But how long do you intend to stay at the temple?
Don’t forget, Arai is waiting for you at Inuyama.”

“I don’t know. It all depends on Takeo.” Kaede could not prevent
herself from continuing. “He said we must marry. We must; we
will.”

“You must not do anything before you have seen Arai,” Shizuka
said urgently. “If you marry without his approval, you will insult him.
He will be deeply offended. You cannot afford to incite his enmity.
He is your strongest ally. And what about Lord Fujiwara? You are
as good as betrothed to him. Will you offend him too?”

“I cannot marry Fujiwara,” Kaede cried. “He of all people knows
that I can marry no one but Takeo. To all other men I bring death.
But I am Takeo’s life and he is mine.”

“This is not the way the world works,” Shizuka said. “Remember
what Lady Maruyama told you, how easily these warlords and
warriors can crush a woman if they think that you question their
power over you. Fujiwara expects to marry you: He must have
already consulted Arai. It is a match Arai can only be in favor of.
Apart from that, Takeo has the entire Tribe against him; he cannot
survive. Don’t look at me like that: It distresses me to hurt you. It’s
because I care so much for you that I must say this to you. I could
swear to you never to harm him, but it would make no difference;
there are hundreds out there who will try. Sooner or later one of
them will succeed. No one can escape the Tribe forever. You have
to accept that this will be his fate. What will you do after his death,
when you have insulted everyone who takes your part? You will
have no hope of Maruyama and will lose Shirakawa. Your sisters
will be ruined with you. Arai is your overlord. You must go to
Inuyama and accept his decision on your marriage. Otherwise you
will enrage him. Believe me: I know how his mind works.”

“Can Arai prevent the coming of spring?” Kaede replied. “Can he
order the snow not to thaw?”

“All men like to believe they can. Women get their own way by
indulging this belief, not by opposing it.”

“Lord Arai will learn differently,” Kaede said in a low voice. “Make
yourself ready. You and Kondo must be gone in an hour.”

She turned away. Her heart was beating wildly, excitement building
up in her belly, her chest, her throat. She could think of nothing
other than being joined with him. The sight of him, his closeness,
awoke the fever in her again.

“You are mad,” Shizuka said. “You have gone beyond reason. You
are unleashing disaster on yourself and your family.”

As if in confirmation of Shizuka’s fears, there was a sudden noise;
the house groaned, the screens rattled, the wind chimes sounded
as the ground shook beneath their feet.

s soon as the snow began to melt and the thaw came, word spread
like running water that I was at Ter-ayama and was going to
challenge the Otori lords for my inheritance. And like running water,
first in a trickle, then in a flood, warriors began to make their way to
the mountain temple. Some were masterless, but most were Otori
who recognized the legitimacy of my claim as Shigeru’s heir. My
story was already a legend, and I seemed to have become a hero,
not only to the young men of the warrior class, but also to the
farmers and villagers of the Otori domain, who had reached a state
of desperation after the bitter winter, the increased taxation, and
the ever-harsher laws imposed by Shoichi and Masahiro, Shigeru’s
uncles. The air was full of the sounds of spring. The willows put on
their gold-green fronds. Swallows darted over the flooded fields
and crafted their nests under the eaves of the temple buildings.
Every night the noise of frogs grew louder, the loud call of the rain
frog, the clacking rhythm of the tree frog, and the sweet tinkling of
the little bell frog.

Flowers bloomed in a riot along the dikes: bitter cress, buttercups,
and bright pink vetch. Herons, ibis, and cranes returned to the
rivers and the pools.

The abbot, Matsuda Shingen, made the considerable wealth of the
temple freely available to me, and with his help I spent the early
weeks of spring organizing the men who came to me, equipping
and arming them. Smiths and armorers appeared fromYamagata
and elsewhere and set up their workshops at the foot of the holy
mountain. Every day horse dealers came, hoping to make a good
sale, and they usually did, for I bought all the horses I could. No
matter how many men I had and how well they were armed, my
main weapons would always be speed and surprise. I did not have
the time or the resources to muster a huge army of foot soldiers
like Arai. I had to rely on a small but swifter band of horsemen.

Among the first to arrive were the Miyoshi brothers, Kahei and
Gemba, with whom I had trained in Hagi. Those days when we had
fought with wooden swords now seemed impossibly distant. Their
appearance meant a great deal to me, far more than they
suspected when they fell to their knees and begged to be allowed
to join me. Jt meant that the best of the Otori had not forgotten
Shigeru. They brought thirty men with them and, just as welcome,
news from Hagi.

“Shoichi and Masahiro are aware of your return,” Kahei told me. He
was several years older than me and had some experience of war,
having been at Yaegahara at the age of fourteen. “But they don’t
take it very seriously. They feel it will only take one quick skirmish
to rout you.” He grinned at me. “I don’t mean to insult you, but
they’ve formed the impression that you’re something of a
weakling.”

“That’s the only way they’ve seen me,” I replied. I remembered
Iida’s retainer, Abe, who had thought the same thing and had been
taught differently by Jato. “They are correct in some ways. It is true
that I am young and know only the theory of war, not its practice.
But I have right on my side and am fulfilling Shigeru’s will.”

“People say you are touched by heaven,” Gemba said. “They say
you have been given powers that are not of this world.”

“We know all about that!” said Kahei. “Remember the fight with
Yoshitomi? But he considered the powers to be from hell, not
heaven.”

I had fought a bout against Masahiro’s son with wooden swords.
He was a better swordsman than I was then, but I had other skills
that he thought cheating and I had used them to prevent him from
killing me.

“Have they taken my house and land?” I asked. “I heard they
intended to.”

“Not yet, mainly because our old teacher, Ichiro, has refused to
hand them over. He’s made it clear he won’t give in without a fight.
The lords are reluctant to start a brawl with him and Shigeru’s—
your—remaining men.”

It was a relief to me to know that Ichiro was still alive. I hoped he
would leave soon and come to the temple, where I could protect
him. Since the thaw I had been expecting him daily.

“Also, they are not certain of the townspeople,” Gemba put in.
“They don’t want to provoke anyone. They’re afraid of an uprising.”

“They always preferred to plot in secret,” I said.

“They call it negotiation,” Kahei said dryly. “Have they tried to
negotiate with you?”

“I’ve heard nothing from them. Besides, there is nothing to
negotiate. They were responsible for Shigeru’s death. They tried to
murder him in his own house, and when that failed they handed him
over to Iida. I cannot come to an agreement with them, even if they
offer it.”

“What will be your strategy?” Kahei asked, narrowing his eyes.

“There’s no way I can attack the Otori in Hagi. I’d need far greater
resources than I have now. I am thinking I must approach Arai…
but I’ll do nothing until Ichiro gets here. He said he would come as
soon as the road was clear.”

“Send us to Inuyama,” Kahei said. “Our mother’s sister is married
to one of Aral’s retainers. We can find out if winter has changed
Arai’s

o

attitude toward you.“

“When the time is right, I will,” I promised, glad to have a way to
approach Arai indirectly. I did not tell them or anyone yet what I had
already decided: to go first to Kaede, wherever she was, and marry
her and then to take over the Shirakawa and Maruyama lands with
her, if she would still have me, if she was not already married…

With every spring day my restlessness increased. The weather
was fickle, sun one day, icy winds the next. The plum trees
blossomed in a hailstorm. Even when the cherry buds started to
swell, it was still cold. But there were signs of spring
everywhere—especially, it seemed, in my blood. The disciplined
life of the past winter had left me fitter than I had ever been,
physically and mentally. Matsuda’s teaching, his unfailing affection
for me, the knowledge of my Otori blood, had all given me new
self-confidence. I was less ridden by my split nature, less troubled
by conflicting loyalties. I made no outward show of the
restlessness that tormented me. I was learning to show nothing to
the world. But at night my thoughts turned to Kaede, and my desire
followed. I longed for her, fearing that she was married to
someone else and lost to me forever. When I could not sleep I
slipped from the room and left the temple, exploring the
surrounding district, sometimes going as far as Yamagata. The
hours of meditation, study, and training had honed all my skills; I
had no fear of anyone detecting me.

Makoto and I met every day to study together, but by silent
agreement we did not touch each other. Our friendship had moved
onto another plane, which I felt would last a lifetime. Nor did I sleep
with any women. None was allowed in the temple itself, fears of
assassination kept me from the brothels, and I did not want to start
another child. I often thought of Yuki. I could not stop myself from
passing in front of her parents’ house one moonless night late in
the second month. The plum tree’s blossoms gleamed white in the
darkness, but there were no lights within and only one guard on the
gate. I’d heard that Arai’s men had ransacked the house in the
autumn. Now it seemed to be deserted. Even the smell of the
fermenting soybeans had faded.

I thought about our child. I was sure it would be a boy, brought up
by the Tribe to hate me and in all probability destined to fulfil the
blind woman’s prophecy. Knowing the future did not mean that I
could escape it: It was part of the bitter sadness of human life.

I wondered where Yuki was now—possibly in some distant secret
village north of Matsue—and I often thought about her father, Kenji.
He probably would be not so far away, in one of the Muto villages
in the mountains, not knowing that the secret network of the Tribe’s
hiding places had all been revealed to me in the records that
Shigeru had left and that I had spent the winter learning by heart. I
was still not sure what I would do with this knowledge: whether I
would take advantage of it to buy forgiveness and friendship from
Arai, or use it myself to eradicate the secret organization that had
sentenced me to death.

A long time ago Kenji had sworn to protect me as long as I lived. I
discounted this promise as part of the deviousness of his nature,
and I had not forgiven him for his part in Shigeru’s betrayal. But I
also knew that without him I would not have been able to carry out
the work of revenge, and I could not forget that he had followed me
back into the castle that night. If I could have chosen anyone’s
help, it would have been his, but I did not think he would ever go
against the rulings of the Tribe. If we met it would be as enemies,
each seeking to kill the other.

Once when I was coming home at dawn I heard an animal’s sharp
panting and surprised a wolf on the path. He could smell me but
could not see me. I was close enough to see the bright reddish
hair behind his ears, close enough to smell his breath. He snarled
in fear, backed away, turned, and slipped into the undergrowth. I
could hear him stop and sniff again, his nose as sharp as my ears.
Our worlds of the senses overlapped, mine dominated by hearing,
his by smell. I wondered what it would be like to enter the wolf’s
wild and solitary realm. In the Tribe I was known as the Dog, but I
preferred to think of myself like this wolf, no longer owned by
anyone.

Then the morning came when I saw my horse, Raku. It was late in
the third month, when the cherry blossoms were on the point of
flowering. I was walking up the steep track as the sky lightened, my
eyes on the mountain peaks, still snow-covered, turning pink in the
sun. I saw the unfamiliar horses on their lines outside the inn. No
one seemed to be up, though I heard a shutter slide open from the
other side of the courtyard. My gaze drifted over the horses as it
always does, and at the same time as I recognized Raku’s gray
coat and black mane, the horse turned his head, saw me, and
whickered in delight.

He had been my gift to Kaede; he was almost my only possession
left after the fall of Inuyama. Could she have sold him or given him
away? Or had he brought her here to me?

Between the stables and the guest rooms of the inn was a small
courtyard, with pine trees and stone lanterns. I stepped into it. I
knew someone was awake; I could hear breathing behind the
shutters. I went toward the veranda, desperate to know if it was
Kaede, and at the same time certain that in the next moment I
would see her.

She was even lovelier than I remembered. Her illness had left her
thinner and frailer, but it had brought out the beauty of her bones,
the slenderness of her wrists and neck. The pounding of my heart
silenced the world around me. Then, realizing that for a few
moments we would be alone before the inn awoke, I went and knelt
before her.

All too soon I heard the women wake inside the room. I took on
invisibility and slipped away. I heard Kaede’s gasp of fear and
realized I had not yet told her about my Tribe skills. There was so
much we needed to talk about: Would we ever have enough time?
The wind chimes rang out as I passed beneath them. I could see
my horse looking for me, but he did not see me. Then my shape
returned. I was striding up the hill, filled with energetic joy as if I
had drunk some magic potion. Kaede was here. She was not
married. She would be mine.

As I did every day, I went to the burial ground and knelt before
Shigeru’s grave. At this early hour it was deserted, the light dim
beneath the cedars. The sun was touching their tips; on the
opposite side of the valley the mist hung along the sides of the
slopes, so the peaks seemed to be floating on foam.

The waterfall kept up its ceaseless babble, echoed by the softer
trickle of water flowing through gutters and pipes into the pools and
cisterns of the garden. I could hear the monks at prayer, the rise
and fall of the sutras, the sudden clear peal of a bell. I was glad
Shigeru dwelled in this peaceful place. I spoke to his spirit, asking
for his strength and wisdom to be transferred to me. I told him what
he no doubt already knew: that I was going to fulfill his last
requests to me. And, first of all, I was going to marry Shirakawa
Kaede.

There was a sudden heavy shaking as the earth trembled. I was
gripped by certainty that I was doing the right thing, and also by a
sense of urgency. We must marry immediately.

A change in the note of the water made me turn my head. In the
large pond, carp were threshing and milling just below the surface
of the water, a flickering mat of red and gold. Makoto was feeding
them, his face calm and serene as he watched them.

Red and gold filled my eyes, the colors of good fortune, the colors
of marriage.

He saw me looking at him and called, “Where were you? You
missed the first meal.”

“I’ll eat later.” I got to my feet and went toward him. I could not
keep my excitement to myself. “Lady Shirakawa is here. Will you
go with Kahei and escort her to the women’s guest house?”

He threw the last of the millet into the water. “I will tell Kahei. I
prefer not to go myself. I don’t want to remind her of the pain I
caused her.”

“Maybe you are right. Yes, tell Kahei. Let them bring her here
before noon.”

“Why is she here?” Makoto asked, glancing sideways at me.

“She came on a pilgrimage, to give thanks for her recovery. But
now that she is here, I intend to marry her.”

“Just like that?” He laughed without mirth.

“Why not?”

“My experience of marriages is very limited, but I believe in the
case of great families like the Shirakawa or, come to that, the Otori,
consent has to be given: The clan lords have to agree.”

“I am the lord of my clan and I give my consent,” I replied lightly,
feeling he was raising unnecessary problems.

“Your case is slightly different. But who does Lady Shirakawa
obey? Her family may have other plans for her.”

“She has no family.” I could feel anger beginning to simmer.

“Don’t be a fool, Takeo. Everyone has family, especially unmarried
girls who are the heir to great domains.”

“I have both legal right and moral duty to marry her, since she was
betrothed to my adopted father.” My tone was hotter now. “It was
Shigeru’s express will that I should do so.”

“Don’t be angry with me,” he said, after a pause. “I know your
feelings for her. I’m only saying what everyone will tell you.”

“She loves me too!”

“Love has nothing to do with marriage.” He shook his head, looking
at me as if I were a child.

“Nothing’s going to stop me! She is here. I will not let her slip away
from me again. We will be married this week.”

The bell tolled from the temple. One of the older monks walked
across the garden, looking disapprovingly at us. Makoto had kept
his voice low throughout our exchange, but I had been talking
loudly and forcefully.

“I must go to meditation,” he said. “Maybe you should too. Think
about what you are doing before you act.”

“My mind is made up. Go and meditate! I’ll tell Kahei. And then I’ll
speak to the abbot.”

It was already past the time when I usually went to him every
morning for two hours of swordsmanship. I hurried to find the
Miyoshi brothers, and caught up with them on their way downhill to
speak to an armorer.

“Lady Shirakawa?” Kahei said. “Is it safe to go near her?”

“Why do you say that?” I demanded.

“No offense, Takeo, but everyone knows about her. She brings
death to men.”

“Only if they desire her,” Gemba added; then, taking a quick look at
my face, he went on, “That’s what people say!”

“And they also say that she’s so beautiful, it’s impossible to look at
her without desiring her.” Kahei looked gloomy. “You’re sending us
to certain death.”

I was in no mood for their clowning, but their words brought home
to me even more how essential it was that we should marry. Kaede
had said that she was safe only with me, and I understood why:
Only marriage to me would save her from the curse she seemed to
be under. I knew that she would never be any danger to me. Other
men who desired her had died, but I had joined my body to hers
and lived.

I was not going to explain all this to the Miyoshi brothers.

“Bring her to the women’s guest rooms as soon as possible,” I
said shortly. “Make sure none of her men come and also that
Kondo Ki-ichi and Muto Shizuka leave today. She will bring one
woman with her. Treat them with the utmost courtesy. Tell her I will
call on her around the hour of the Monkey.”

“Takeo is truly fearless,” Gemba muttered.

“Lady Shirakawa is going to be my wife.”

That startled them. They saw I was serious and kept their mouths
closed. They bowed formally to me and walked silently to the
guardhouse, where they collected five or six other men. Once they
were beyond the gate, they made a few jokes at my expense, not
realizing that I could hear them, about the praying mantis that
devours her mate. I thought about going after them to teach them a
lesson, but I was already late for the abbot.

Listening to their laughter fade away down the slope, I hurried to

the hall where our sessions took place. He was already there,
dressed in his priest’s robes. I was still in the rough garb I wore on
my nighttime wanderings; a sort of adaptation of the Tribe’s black
uniform: knee-length trousers, leggings, and split-toed boots that
did as well for sword fighting as for leaping up walls and running
over roofs.

Matsuda did not seem to be at all encumbered by his long skirts
and deep sleeves. I usually finished the sessions out of breath and
pouring with sweat. He remained as cool and unruffled as if he had
spent those same two hours in prayer.

I knelt before him to apologize for my lateness. He looked me up
and down, a quizzical expression on his face, but said nothing,
indicating the wooden pole with his head.

I took it from the rack. It was dark in color, almost black, longer than
Jato and much heavier. Since I had been practicing daily with it, the
muscles in my wrists and arms had increased in strength and
flexibility, and I finally seemed to be over the injury to my right hand
that Akio had caused me in Inuyama. At first the pole had felt like
an obstinate horse, slugging against the bit; little by little I had
learned to control it until I could manipulate it as deftly as a pair of
eating sticks.

In practice that precision was as necessary as in real combat, for a
false move could crack a skull or crush a breastbone. We did not
have enough men to risk killing or injuring each other in training.

A wave of tiredness swept over me as I raised the pole into the
challenge position. I had barely slept the night before and had not
eaten since the evening meal. Then I thought of Kaede, saw her
form as I’d seen her earlier, kneeling on the veranda. Energy
flowed back into me. I realized in that split second how completely
necessary she was to me.

Normally I was no match for Matsuda. But something had
transformed me, had taken all the elements of training and melded
them into a whole: a tough, indestructible spirit that sprang from the
core of my being and flowed into my sword arm. For the first time I
realized I was forty years younger than Matsuda. I saw his age and
his vulnerability. I saw I had him at my mercy.

I checked my attack and let the pole drop. In that instance his staff
found the unguarded space, catching me on the side of the neck
with a blow that left me dizzy. Luckily he had not struck with full
force.

His normally serene eyes were blazing with genuine anger.

“That’s to teach you a lesson,” he growled. “First, not to be late
and, second, not to let your softness of heart emerge while you’re
fighting.”

I opened my mouth to speak but he cut me off. “Don’t argue. You
give me the first inkling I’m not wasting my time with you and then
you throw it away. Why? Not because you felt pity for me, I hope?”

I shook my head.

He sighed. “You can’t fool me. I saw it in your eyes. I saw the boy
who came here last year and was moved by Sesshu. Is that what
you want to be? An artist? I told you then that you could come back
here and study and draw. Is that what you want?”

I was disinclined to answer but he waited until I did. “A part of me
might want it, but not yet. First I have to carry out Shigeru’s
commands.”

“Are you sure of that? Will you commit yourself to it with a whole
heart?”

I heard the utter seriousness of his tone and answered in the same
way. “Yes, I will.”

“You will be leading many men, some to their death. Are you sure

enough of yourself to do that? If you have any weakness, Takeo, it
is this: You feel too much pity. A warrior needs more than a dash of
ruthlessness, of black blood. Many will die following you, and you
will kill many yourself. Once you launch yourself on this path, you
must pursue it to the end. You cannot check your attack or drop
your guard because you feel pity for your opponent.“

I could feel the color mounting to my face. “I will not do it again. I
did not mean to insult you. Forgive me.”

“I’ll forgive you if you can achieve that move again and follow it
through!”

He took up the challenge position, his eyes fixed on mine. I had no
qualms about meeting his gaze: He had never succumbed to the
Kikuta sleep, and I had never tried to impose it on him. Nor did I
ever intentionally use invisibility or the second self with him, though
sometimes, in the heat of combat, I felt my image begin to slide
away.

His staff moved like lightning through the air. I stopped thinking
then about anything except the opponent in front of me and the
thrust of the pole, the floor beneath our feet, the space around us
that we filled almost like a dance. And twice more I came to the
same point where I saw my dominance over him, and neither time
did I fail to follow the move through.

When we had finished, even Matsuda was glowing slightly,
perhaps due to the spring weather. As we were wiping the sweat
from our faces with towels Norio brought, he said, “I did not think
you would ever make a swordsman, but you have done better than
I expected. When you concentrate you are not bad, not bad at all.”

I was speechless at such high praise. He laughed. “Don’t let it go
to your head. I’ll meet you again later this afternoon. I hope you
have prepared your study on strategy.”

“Yes, sir. But there is something else I need to talk to you about.”

“Something to do with Lady Shirakawa?”

“How did you know?”

“I’d already heard that she was on her way to visit the temple.
Arrangements have been made for her to stay in the women’s
guest house. It is a great honor for us. I will go and see her later
today.”

It all sounded like casual chat about an ordinary guest, but I knew
Matsuda well enough by now: He did nothing casually. I was afraid
he would have the same misgivings about my marriage to Kaede
that Makoto had voiced, but I had to tell him my intentions sooner
or later. All this flashed through my head in an instant, and then it
occurred to me that if I should seek anyone’s permission, it should
be his.

I fell to my knees and said, “I wish to marry Lady Shirakawa. May I
have your permission and may the ceremony be held here?”

“Is that the reason she came here? Does she come with the
permission of her family and clan?”

“No, she came for a different purpose: to give thanks for
recovering from an illness. But it was one of Lord Shigeru’s last
commands to me that I should marry her, and now fate seems to
have brought her here to me…” I heard a note of pleading in my
voice.

The abbot heard it too. Smiling, he said, “The problem is not going
to be on your side, Takeo. For you it is the right thing to do. But for
her to marry without approval from her clan, from Lord Arai… Be
patient, seek his permission. He was in favor of the marriage last
year. There’s every reason to think he still will be.”

“I may be murdered at any moment!” I exclaimed. “I have no time
to be patient! And there is someone else who wishes to marry
her.”

“Are they betrothed?”

“There is nothing official. But apparently he has expectations of

the marriage taking place. He is a nobleman; his estate lies
alongside hers.“

“Fujiwara,” Matsuda said.

“You know him?”

“I know who he is. Everyone does, apart from half-literates like you.
It’s a very suitable alliance. The estates will be joined, Fujiwara’s
son will inherit them both, and more important, since Fujiwara will
almost certainly return to the capital soon, Arai will have a friend at
court.”

“Arai will not, because she will not marry Fujiwara. She will marry
me, and before the end of the week!”

“Between them they will crush you.” His eyes were fixed on my
face.

“Not if Arai thinks I can help him destroy the Tribe. And when we
marry we will move at once to Maruyama. Lady Shirakawa is the
legal heir to that domain as well as to her father’s. It will give me the
resources I need to challenge the Otori.”

“As a strategy, it’s not bad,” he said. “But there are grave risks: You
could completely antagonize Arai. I’d thought it better for you to
serve under him for a while and learn the art of war. And you do not
want to make an enemy of a man like Fujiwara. This move, for all its
boldness, could destroy your hopes utterly. I don’t want to see that
happen. I want to see all of Shigeru’s desires fulfilled. Is it worth
the gamble?”

“Nothing will prevent me from marrying her,” I said in a low voice.

“You are infatuated with her. Don’t let that affect your judgment.”

“It’s more than infatuation: She is my life and I am hers.”

He sighed. “We all think that at some age about some woman or
other. Believe me, it doesn’t last.”

“Lord Shigeru and Lady Maruyama loved each other deeply for

years,“ I dared to say.

“Yes, well, it must be some madness in the Otori blood,” he
retorted, but his expression had softened and his eyes took on a
musing look.

“It’s true,” he said finally. “Their love did last. And it illuminated all
their plans and hopes. If they had married, and brought about the
alliance they dreamed of between the Middle Country and the
West, who knows what they might not have achieved?” He reached
down and patted me on the shoulder. “It’s as if their spirits have
brought about a second chance in you and Lady Shirakawa. And I
can’t deny it: To make Maruyama your base makes a great deal of
sense. For that reason, as much as for the sake of the dead, I will
agree to this marriage. You may start making the necessary
preparations.”

“I’ve never been to this sort of wedding,” I confessed after I had
bowed to the ground in gratitude. “What needs to be done?”

“The woman that came with her will know. Ask her. I hope I haven’t
reached my dotage,” he added before dismissing me.

It was nearly time for the midday meal. I went to wash and change
my clothes. I dressed with care, putting on another of the silk robes
with the Otori crest on the back that had been given to me when I
arrived at Terayama after my journey through the snow. I ate
distractedly, hardly tasting the food, listening all the time for her
arrival.

Finally I heard Kahei’s voice outside the eating hall. I called to him
and he came in to join me.

“Lady Shirakawa is at the women’s guest rooms,” he said. “Fifty
more men have come from Hagi. We’ll billet them in the village.
Gemba is arranging it.”

“I’ll see them tonight,” I said, my heart lifting from both pieces of
news. I left him eating and went back to my room, where I knelt at
the writing table and took out the scrolls the abbot had told me to
read.

I thought I would die of impatience before I saw Kaede again, but
gradually I became absorbed in the art of war: the accounts of
battles won and lost, strategy and tactics, the roles played by
heaven and earth. The problem he had set me was how to take the
town of Yam-agata. It had been a theoretical problem, no more;
Yamagata was still under the control of Arai through his interim
governor, though there had been reports that the Otori planned to
retake their former city and were assembling an army on their
southern border nearTsuwano. Matsuda had intended to approach
Arai on my behalf and make peace between us, whereupon I
would serve Arai while pursuing the Otori inheritance. However, I
was now acutely aware that if I risked inciting Arai’s enmity anew by
marrying Kaede I might very well need to take Yamagata at once. It
added a certain sense of reality to my studies of strategy.

I knew the town so well: I’d explored every street; I’d climbed into
the castle. And I knew the terrain around it, its mountains, valleys,
hills, and rivers. My main difficulty was having so few men at my
command, a thousand at most. Yamagata was a prosperous town,
but the winter had been hard on everyone. If I attacked in early
spring, could the castle withstand a long siege? Would diplomacy
bring about a surrender where force would not? What advantages
did I have over the defenders?

While I was brooding over these problems, my thoughts turned to
the outcast, Jo-An. I had said I would send for him in the spring,
but I was still not sure I wanted to. I could never forget the hungry,
passionate look in his eyes, in the eyes of the boatman and the
other outcasts. “He’s your man now,” Jo-An had said of the
boatman. “We all are.” Could I add outcasts to my army, or the
farmers who came daily to pray and make offerings at Shigeru’s
grave? I had no doubt

&J

H E A R N

that I could count on these men if I wanted them. But was this what
the warrior class did? I had never read of battles where farmers
fought. Usually they stayed well clear of the combat, hating both
sides equally and afterward stripping the dead impartially.

As it often did, the face of the farmer I had murdered in his secret
field in the hills behind Matsue floated before my mind’s eye. I
heard his voice call again, “Lord Shigeru!” As much as anything
else, I wanted to lay his ghost to rest. But he also brought into my
mind the courage and determination of his fellows, resources that
at the moment were wasted. If I used them, would he stop haunting
me?

The farmers in the Otori lands, both in the existing ones around
Hagi and those that had been ceded to the Tohan—Yamagata
included—had loved Shigeru. They had already risen in fury after
his death. I believed they would also support me, but I feared
using them would weaken the loyalty of my warriors.

Back to the theoretical problem of Yamagata: If I could get rid of
the interim lieutenant Arai had placed in the castle, there was a
much greater chance of the city surrendering without a long siege.
What I needed was an assassin I could trust. The Tribe had
admitted I was the only person who could have climbed alone into
Yamagata Castle, but it did not seem like a good scheme for the
commander-in-chief to undertake. My thoughts began to drift a
little, reminding me I’d hardly slept the night before. I wondered if I
could train young boys and girls in the way the Tribe trained them.
They might not have innate skills, but there was much that was
simply a matter of teaching. I could see all the advantages of a
network of spies. Might there not be some disaffected Tribe
members who could be persuaded to serve me? I put the thought
away for the time being, but it was to return to me later. As the day
warmed up, time slowed even more. Flies, having woken from their
winter sleep, were buzzing against the screens. I heard the first
bush warbler calling from the forest, the glide of the swallows’
wings and the snap of their beaks as they took insects. The
sounds of the temple murmured around me: the tread of feet, the
swish of robes, the rise and fall of chanting, the sudden clear note
of a bell.

A light breeze was blowing from the south, full of the fragrance of
spring. Within a week Kaede and I would be married. Life seemed
to rise around me, embracing me with its vigor and energy. Yet, I
was kneeling here, rapt in the study of war.

And when Kaede and I met that evening, we did not talk of love but
of strategy. We had no need to talk of love; we were to be married,
we were to become husband and wife. But if we were to live long
enough to have children, we needed to act swiftly to consolidate
our power.

I had been right in my instinct, when Makoto first told me that she
was raising an army, that Kaede would make a formidable ally. She
agreed with me that we should go straight to Maruyama; she told
me of her meeting with Sugita Haruki in the autumn. He was waiting
to hear from her, and she suggested sending some of her men to
the domain to let him know of our intentions. I agreed, and thought
the younger of the Miyoshi brothers, Gemba, might go with them.
We sent no messages to Inuyama: The less Arai knew of our
plans, the better.

“Shizuka said our marriage will enrage him,” Kaede said.

I knew it probably would. We should have known better. We should
have been patient. Perhaps if we had approached Arai through the
proper channels, through Gemba and Kahei’s aunt or through
Matsuda or Sugita, he would have decided in our favor. But we
were both seized by a desperate sense of urgency, knowing how
short our lives might be. And so we were married a few days later,
before the shrine, in the shadow of the trees that surrounded
Shigeru’s grave, in accordance with his will but in defiance of all the
rules of our class. I suppose I might say in our defense that neither
of us had had a typical upbringing. We had both escaped, for
different reasons, the rigid training in obedience of most warriors’
children. It gave us freedom to act as we pleased, but the elders of
our class were to make us pay for it.

The weather continued warm under the south wind. On our
wedding day the cherry blossoms were fully open, a mass of pink
and white. Kaede’s men had now been allowed to join mine and
the highest-ranking warrior among them, AmanoTenzo, spoke for
her and on behalf of the Shirakawa clan. When Kaede was led
forward by the shrine maiden, in the red and white robes Manami
had somehow managed to find for her, she looked beautiful in a
timeless way, as if she were a sacred being. I spoke my name as
Otori Takeo and named Shigeru and the Otori clan as my
ancestors. We exchanged the ritual cups of wine, three times
thrice, and as the sacred branches were offered, a sudden gust of
wind sent a snowstorm of petals down on us.

It might have seemed a chilly omen, but that night after the feasting
and the celebrations, when we were finally alone together, we had
no thoughts of omens. In Inuyama we had made love in a sort of
wild desperation, expecting to die before morning. But now, in the
safety of Terayama, we had time to explore each other’s bodies, to
give and take pleasure slowly. And besides, since then Yuki had
taught me something of the art of love.

We talked about our lives since we had been separated, especially
about the child. We thought about its soul, launched again into the
cycle of birth and death, and prayed for it. I told Kaede about my
visit to Hagi and my flight through the snow. I did not tell her about
Yuki, and she kept secrets from me, for though she told me a little
about Lord Fujiwara, she did not go into details as to the pact they
had made. I knew he had given her large amounts of money and
food, and it worried me, for it made me think his views on the
marriage were more fixed than hers. I felt a slight chill in my spine
that may have been a premonition, but I put the thought away, for I
wanted nothing to spoil my joy.

I woke toward dawn to find her sleeping in my arms. Her skin was
white, silky to my touch, both warm and cool at the same time. Her
hair, so long and thick it covered us both like a shawl, smelled of
jasmine. I had thought her like the flower on the high mountain,
completely beyond my reach, but she was here, she was mine.
The world stood still in the silent night as the realization sank in.
The backs of my eyes stung as tears came. Heaven was benign.
The gods loved me. They had given me Kaede.

For a few days heaven continued to smile on us, giving us gentle
spring weather, every day sunny. Everyone at the temple seemed
happy for us—from Manami, who beamed with delight when she
brought us tea the first morning, to the abbot, who resumed my
lessons, teasing me unmercifully if he caught me yawning. Scores
of people made the climb up the mountain to bring gifts and wish
us well, just as the village people would have done in Mino.

Only Makoto sounded a different note. “Make the most of your
happiness,” he said to me. “I am happy for you, believe me, but I
fear it will not last.”

I already knew this: I had learned it from Shigeru. “Death comes
suddenly and life is fragile and brief,” he had told me the day after
he had saved my life in Mino. “No one can alter this either by
prayers or spells.” It was the fragility of life that made it so
precious. Our happiness was all the more intense for our
awareness of how fleeting it might be.

The cherry blossoms were already falling, the days lengthening as
the season turned. The winter of preparation was over: Spring was
giving way to summer, and summer was the season of war. Five
battles lay ahead of us, four to win and one to lose.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank the Asialink Foundation and all my friends in
Japan and Australia who have helped me in researching and writing
Tales of the Otori.

In Grass for His Pillow I particular want to thank Ms. Sugiyama
Kazuko for her calligraphy and Simon Higgins for his advice on
martial arts.

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