Kaede eyed the package warily. His tone warned her that he was enjoying some kind of cruel teasing at her expense. She had no idea what it might be: a small statue, perhaps, or a flask of perfume.
She raised her eyes to his face and saw the slight smile play on his lips. She had no weapons and no defenses against him except her beauty and her courage. She gazed past him, serene and immobile.
He stood and wished her good night. She bowed to the floor as he left. The wind shook the roof and the rain lashed against it. She could not hear his footsteps as he walked away: It was as if he disappeared into the storm.
She was alone, though she knew Rieko and the maids were waiting in the adjoining rooms. She let her gaze fall on the deep purple silk and after a few moments picked it up and unwrapped the object inside.
It was an erect male member, carved from some reddish, silky wood, cherry perhaps, and perfect in every detail. She was both repelled and fascinated by it, as no doubt Fujiwara had known she would be. He would never touch her body, he would never sleep with her, but he had read her awakened desire, and with this perverse gift he was both despising and tormenting her.
Tears sprang into her eyes then. She rewrapped the carving and placed it back in the box. Then she lay down on the mattress in her marriage chamber and wept silently for the man she loved and desired.
· 7·
feared I would have to report your disappearance to your wife,” Makoto said as we made our way through the darkness to the shrine. “I dreaded it more than any battle I have ever faced.”
“I was afraid you would have deserted me,” I replied.
“I hope you know me better than that! It would have been my duty to tell Lady Otori, but I was going to leave Jiro here with horses and food and return as soon as I had spoken to her.” He added in a low voice, “I would never desert you, Takeo; you must know that.”
I felt ashamed of my doubts and did not share them with him.
He called to the men who were keeping guard and they shouted in reply.
“Are you all awake?” I said, for usually we shared the night watch and slept in turns.
“None of us felt like sleep,” he replied. “The night is too still and heavy. The recent storm, the one that delayed you, came up out of nowhere. And for the last couple of days we’ve had the feeling there is someone spying on us. Yesterday, Jiro went to look for wild yams in the forest and saw someone lurking in the trees. I thought the bandits the fisherman mentioned might have got word of our presence and were checking out our strength.”
We’d been making more noise than a team of oxen as we stumbled along the overgrown path. If anyone was spying on us, they would have no doubt of my return.
“They’re probably afraid we’re competition,” I said. “As soon as we get back with more men we’ll get rid of them, but the six of us can’t take them on now. We’ll leave at first light and hope they don’t ambush us on the road.”
It was impossible to tell what hour it was or how long it would be till dawn. The old shrine buildings were full of strange noises, creaks from the timber, rustling in the thatch. Owls called all night from the woods, and once I heard a pad of feet: a wild dog, perhaps, or maybe even a wolf. I tried to sleep, but my mind was full of all those who wanted to kill me. It was quite possible that we had been traced here, and the delay made it even more likely. The fisherman—Ryoma, even—might have let slip something about my trip to Oshima, and I knew only too well that the Tribe’s spies were everywhere. Quite apart from the edict they had issued against me, many of them would now feel bound by blood feuds to avenge their relatives.
Though by day I might believe in the truth of the prophecy, as always in the early hours of the morning I found it less comforting. I was inching toward achieving my goal; I could not bear the thought of dying before I’d succeeded. But with so many arrayed against me, was I as much of a lunatic as Jo-An to believe I could overcome them?
I must have dozed off, for when I next opened my eyes the sky was light gray and birds were starting to sing. Jiro was still asleep next to me, breathing deeply and evenly like a child. I touched his shoulder to wake him and he opened his eyes, smiling. Then as he returned from the other world I saw disappointment and grief spring into his face.
“Were you dreaming?” I said.
“Yes. I saw my brother. I was so glad he was alive after all. He called to me to follow him and then walked away into the forest behind our house.” He made a visible effort to master his emotions and got to his feet. “We’re leaving right away, aren’t we? I’ll go and get the horses ready.”
I thought of the dream I had had about my mother and wondered what the dead were trying to tell us. In the dawn light the shrine looked more ghostly than ever. It was a bitter, hostile place and I could not wait to leave it.
The horses were fresh after the days of rest, and we rode fast. It was still hot and oppressive, with gray clouds and no wind. I looked back at the beach as we went up the cliff path, wondering about the fisherman and his remaining child, but there was no sign of life from the hovels. We were all jumpy. My ears were alert to every sound, straining to hear above the pounding of the horses’ feet and the creak and jingle of the harness as well as the dull roaring of the sea.
At the top of the cliff I halted for a moment and gazed out toward Oshima. It was hidden in the mist, but a heavy crown of clouds showed where it lay.
Jiro had stopped alongside me, the others riding on into the forest ahead. There was a moment of silence, and in that moment I heard the unmistakable sound, somewhere between a creak and a sigh, of a bowstring being drawn.
I shouted out a warning to Jiro and tried to reach him to push him down, but Shun leaped sideways, almost unseating me, and I found myself clinging to his neck. Jiro turned his head and looked toward the forest. The arrow passed whistling above me and struck him in the eye.
He let out a cry of shock and pain; his hands went to his face and then he fell forward onto his horse’s neck. The horse neighed in alarm, bucked a little, and tried to take off after its companions in front, its rider swinging helplessly from side to side.
Shun stretched out his neck and went snaking across the ground toward the shelter of the trees. Ahead, Makoto and the guards had turned. One of the men rode forward and managed to grab the panicked horse by the bridle.
Makoto lifted Jiro from the saddle, but by the time I reached them the boy had died. The arrow had penetrated right through his head, shattering the back of the skull. I dismounted, cut off the bolt, and drew out the shaft. The arrow was massive and fletched with eagle feathers. The bow that had sent it must have been huge, the sort that solitary bowmen use.
I was filled with almost unbearable anguish. The shot had been meant for me. If I had not heard it and evaded it, Jiro would not be dead. Mad rage erupted in me. I would kill his murderer or die myself.
Makoto said in a whisper, “It must be an ambush. Let’s take shelter and see how many there are.”
“No, this was meant for me,” I replied, as quietly. “This is the work of the Tribe. Stay here; take cover. I’m going after him. There will be only one—two at the most.” I did not want the men with me. Only I could move silently and invisibly; only I had the skills to get close to this assassin. “Come when I call you; I want to take him alive.”
Makoto said, “If there’s only one, rather than take cover we’ll ride on. Give me your helmet; I’ll ride Shun. We may be able to confuse him. He’ll follow us and you can come on him from behind.”
I did not know how far this deception would work or how close the bowman was. He would have seen the arrow miss me. He would guess I’d be after him. But if my men rode ahead, at least they would not be hindering me. The bowman might be anywhere in the forest by now, but I reckoned I could move faster and more silently than he could. As the horses trotted off with their sad burden, I went invisible and ran up the slope, threading my way between the trees. I did not think the bowman would have stayed in th
e place from which he had sent the fatal arrow; I figured he would have moved in a southwest direction to cut us off where the road turned back to the south. But even if he was still watching us, unless he had supreme Tribe skills, he would not know where I was now.
Before long I heard the sounds of a man breathing and the slight pressure of a foot on the soft earth. I stopped and held my own breath. He passed within ten paces of me without seeing me.
It was Kikuta Hajime, the young wrestler from Matsue, with whom I had trained. I had last seen him at the wrestlers’ stable when I had left for Hagi with Akio. I had imagined then that he had thought he would never see me again. But Akio had not been able to kill me as he had planned, and now Hajime had been sent against me. The huge bow was slung over his shoulder; he moved, like most heavy men, balanced on the outside of his feet and, despite his weight, swiftly and silently. Only my ears could have discerned him.
I followed him toward the road where I could hear the horses ahead of us, moving at a swift canter as if in flight. I even heard one of the guards shout to Makoto to ride faster, addressing him as Lord Otori, making me grin bitterly at the deception. My quarry and I went at speed up the slope and down again and came out on a rocky outcrop that gave a good vantage point over the road beneath.
Hajime planted his feet firmly on the rock and took the bow from his shoulder. He set the arrow in the cord; I heard him take a deep breath as he drew it back: The muscles stood out on his arms and rippled across his neck. In close combat with him I wouldn’t stand a chance. I could probably get him with Jato if I took him from behind, but I’d have to be sure to kill him with the first blow, and I wanted to take him alive.
He stood motionless, waiting for his target to appear from under the trees. I could barely hear his breathing now. I knew the technique he was using and I was familiar enough with the training he’d undergone to recognize his total concentration. He was one with the bow, with the arrow. It was probably a magnificent sight, but all I was aware of was my desire to see him suffer and then die. I tried to calm my rage. I had only a few moments to think.
I still carried on me my Tribe weapons, among them a set of throwing knives. I was no expert with them, but they might answer my purpose now. I had dried and oiled them after my soaking in the pirates’ harbor; they slipped silkily from their holster. As the horses approached below, I ran, still invisible, out from my hiding place, throwing the knives as I went.
The first two sailed past him, breaking his concentration and making him turn toward me. He was looking over my head with the same puzzled expression he’d worn in the training hall when I had used invisibility there. It made me want to laugh and pained me beyond words at one and the same time. The third knife caught him on the cheek, its many points making blood flower immediately. He took an involuntary step backward and I saw he was right on the brink. I threw the next two knives directly at his face and came back to visibility right in front of him. Jato sprang into my hand. He threw himself backward to avoid the blow and went over the edge, falling heavily almost under the horses’ feet.
He was winded by the fall and bleeding from cheek and eyes, but it still took the five of us more than a brief struggle to subdue him. He did not utter a sound, but his eyes burned with rage and malevolence. I had to decide whether to kill him on the spot or drag him back to Maruyama, where I would devise a slow death for him that might assuage my grief for Jiro.
Once Hajime was trussed up and unable to move, I drew Makoto aside to ask his advice. I could not get out of my head the memory of how Hajime and I had trained together; we had almost been friends. Such was the code of the Tribe that it transcended any personal liking or loyalty. Didn’t I already know that from my own experience, from Kenji’s betrayal of Shigeru? Yet I was shocked by it all over again.
Hajime called to me, “Hey, dog!”
One of the guards kicked him. “How dare you address Lord Otori in that fashion.”
“Come here, Lord Otori,” the wrestler sneered. “I have something to tell you.”
I went to him.
“The Kikuta have your son,” he said. “And his mother is dead.”
“Yuki is dead?”
“Once the boy was born, they made her take poison. Akio will raise him alone. The Kikuta will get you. You betrayed them; they will never let you live. And they have your son.”
He made an almost animal-like snarl and, extending his tongue out to its fullest length, clamped his teeth down through it, biting it off. His eyes were wild with pain and rage; yet he did not make another sound. He spat out his tongue and a gush of blood followed it. It filled his throat, choking him. His powerful body arched and struggled, fighting the death his will imposed on it as he drowned in his own blood.
I turned away, sickened, and saddened beyond belief. My rage had abated. In its place was a leaden heaviness, as if the sky had fallen into my soul. I ordered the men to drag him into the forest, cut off his head, and leave his body for the wolves and foxes.
Jiro’s body we took with us. We stopped at a small town along the coast, Ohama, where we held the burial service at the local shrine and paid for a stone lantern to be erected for him beneath the cedars. We donated the bow and arrows to the shrine, and I believe they still hang there, up under the rafters along with the votive pictures of horses, for the place was sacred to the horse goddess.
Among the pictures are my horses. We had to stay in the town for nearly two weeks, first to conduct the funeral ceremonies and cleanse ourselves from the pollution of death, and then for the Festival of the Dead. I borrowed an inkstone and brushes from the priest and painted Shun’s picture on a slab of wood. Into it I believe I put not only my respect and gratitude for the horse that had saved my life again but also my grief for Jiro, for Yuki, for my life that seemed to lead me only into witnessing the deaths of others. And maybe my longing for Kaede, whom I missed with physical pain as grief set alight my desire for her.
I painted obsessively: Shun, Raku, Kyu, Aoi. It was a long time since I had painted, and the brush in my hand, the cool wash of the ink, had a calming effect on me. As I sat alone in the tranquil temple, I allowed myself to fantasize that this was my whole life. I had retired from the world and spent my days painting votive pictures for pilgrims. I recalled the words of the abbot at Terayama on my first visit there so long ago with Shigeru: Come back when this is all over. There will be a place for you here.
Will it ever be over? I asked, as I had then.
Often I found tears spring to my eyes. I grieved for Jiro and for Yuki, for their short lives, for their devotion to me, which I had not deserved, for their murders on my account. I longed to avenge them, but the brutality of Hajime’s suicide had repelled me. What endless cycle of death and revenge had I initiated? I recalled all that Yuki and I had experienced together, and bitterly regretted . . . what? That I had not loved her? Maybe I had not loved her with the passion I felt for Kaede, but I had desired her, and the memory of it made me ache with desire all over again and weep again for her lithe body now stilled forever.
I was glad the solemnities of the Festival of the Dead gave me the chance to say farewell to her spirit. I lit candles for all the dead who had gone before me and asked them for their forgiveness and their guidance. It was a year since I had stood on the bank of the river at Yamagata with Shigeru and we had sent our little flaming boats adrift on the current; a year since I had spoken Kaede’s name, seen her face come alight, and known that she loved me.
Desire tormented me. I could have lain with Makoto and so eased it, as well as comforted him in his grief, but though I was often tempted, something held me back. During the day, while I painted for hours, I meditated on the past year and all I had done in it, my mistakes and the pain and suffering they had inflicted on those around me. Apart from my decision to go with the Tribe, all my mistakes, I came to realize, sprang from uncontrolled desire. If I had not slept with Makoto, his obsession would not have led him to expose Kaede to her father. If I
had not slept with her, she would not have nearly died when she lost our child. And if I had not slept with Yuki, she would still be alive and the son that would kill me would never have been born. I found myself thinking of Shigeru, who had resisted marrying and puzzled his household by his abstinence because he had vowed to Lady Maruyama that he would lie with no one but her. I knew of no other man who had made such a vow, but the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to emulate him in this as in everything I did. Kneeling silently before the horse-headed Kannon, I made a vow to the goddess that all my love, physical and emotional, from now on would be given only to Kaede, to my wife.
Our separation had made me realize anew how much I needed her, how she was the fixed point that steadied and strengthened my life. My love for her was the antidote to the poison that rage and grief had sent through me; like all antidotes I kept it well hidden and well guarded.
Makoto, as grief-stricken as I, also spent long hours in silent meditation. We hardly spoke during the day, but after the evening meal we often talked until far into the night. He, of course, had heard Hajime’s words to me and tried to ask me about Yuki, about my son, but at first I could not bear to speak of either of them. However, on the first night of the festival, after we returned from the shore we drank a little wine together. Relieved that the coolness between us seemed to have vanished, and trusting him completely as I trusted no other man, I felt I should tell him the words of the prophecy.
He listened carefully as I described the ancient blind woman, her saintly appearance, the cave, the prayer wheel, and the sign of the Hidden.
“I have heard of her,” he said. “Many people aspiring to holiness go to seek her, but I have never known anyone else who has found the way.”
“I was taken by the outcast, Jo-An.”
He was silent. It was a warm, still night, and all the screens stood open. The full moon poured its light over the shrine and the sacred grove. The sea roared on the shingle beach. A gecko crossed the ceiling, its tiny feet sucking at the beams. Mosquitoes whined and moths fluttered around the lamps. I extinguished the flames so they would not burn their wings: The moon was bright enough to light the room.