He had gone to Minatogura burning with resentment and rage, but he had mastered his feelings and served his new family, the Yamada, and his new lords, the Miboshi, diligently. He had seen how he must make himself useful to those around him to survive, and he had become adept at willingly performing tasks no one else wanted to do.
He had obeyed his father, as sons were supposed to, and now he intended to enjoy the fruits of his obedience. He was even grateful now to his father, who had ensured his position on the winning side. Matsutani and Kuromori were now his, with or without the tribunal’s ruling. He was the only surviving heir.
Yet he did not feel secure. He began to fear that the estates might be bestowed on someone else, that Lord Aritomo might forget him or overlook him, that his Kakizuki blood might count against him. When it was reported that the last of Kiyoyori’s men were holding out in Kuromori he requested permission to lead an attack on them before the rains set in.
He was given a hundred warriors, who had been waiting restlessly in the city for their next chance for a battle, a skirmish, or a siege—anything was better than hunting down women and children. They were eager for a chance to prove themselves again. Most had no land and were hungry for recognition and rewards. Masachika and his second in command, Yasuie, could both read and write and, even before they left Miyako, were beset with requests to record the men’s names, their war history, the battles they had fought in, the wounds they had received.
It amused Masachika and he found it a useful means to learn each individual history and form judgments on this loosely associated troop of men who were only in the vaguest terms under his command. Some were braggarts, some brave (and of course it was possible to be both), some pragmatic and calculating. They were content to follow him for the time being, if only because he had some legitimacy: he was taking back what was his and he knew the country and the terrain, but each man would be fighting for his own glory and gain.
On the second evening, they arrived at the Shimaura barrier. It was still decorated with the heads of Kiyoyori’s men who had died defending it in vain. Masachika himself had killed more than one of them. He had not thought about it in the heat of the battle, but now he felt uneasy. They had been his family’s retainers. He had been taught by the older men, had grown up with the younger ones. Their sightless eye sockets (the eyes had already been pecked out by crows) seemed to reproach him. He would have liked to have the heads taken down and buried, yet he did not dare show weakness or any sympathy for the Kakizuki. Instead he addressed the dead boldly, by name, mocking them, making the living laugh heartily.
He slept badly that night, woke the others before daybreak, and rode with a somber heart toward Matsutani.
The sun rose over the eastern mountains, dazzling their eyes. Ahead, slightly to the north, lay the Darkwood. On the flat land along the river the young rice plants glowed a brilliant green, swaying above their reflections in the flooded fields. Frogs croaked from the banks and butterflies flew up from the grass. The air was moist and heavy, the men sweated beneath their armor, the horses’ coats turned dark.
In the early afternoon they approached Matsutani. Sensing they were near their destination, the men began to break away to collect whatever food they could find: some eggs here, a bucket of millet there, fresh greens pulled from the earth. The farmers and their families did not protest or resist, but stared resentfully in Masachika’s direction. He wondered if they recognized him. He wanted to say, “I am your lord. Everything here is mine.”
Yasuie was eyeing him curiously. “There’s some strange history, isn’t there, between you and your brother?”
“Nothing that need concern anyone, anymore, since my brother is dead.”
“Just seems a bit unusual that you ended up on opposite sides.”
Masachika urged his horse on, making no answer, but when he arrived at the west gate, alone, he called in a loud voice, “I am Kuromori no Jiro no Masachika. I have come to reclaim my estate.”
Yasuie caught up with him. “The men were told the house is occupied by evil spirits. That’s why it is deserted. They were placed there as guardians by the old man Sesshin.”
“Sesshin?” Masachika said in surprise. “My father’s old fool? Well, no wonder they’ve gone bad.”
“They say it happened after the lady had his eyes put out.”
Masachika said, hiding a shudder, “It is a feeble excuse for failing to carry out any repairs. I heard there was an earthquake, months ago. It’s disgraceful that nothing has been done.” He dismounted and let the horse graze. He walked through the gate and spoke again in a loud voice. “It is I, Masachika, lord of Kuromori and Matsutani.”
There was a long moment of silence, long enough for Masachika to observe the destruction and neglect of the once beautiful house and garden. The lake was a stretch of mud, the summer pavilion a pile of charred wood. Then a ripple of laughter came from inside the half-burned residence.
“Masachika, come here!”
“Kiyoyori?” he gasped. “Brother?”
Yasuie spoke behind him. “Don’t go any closer. It is not your brother. It cannot be.”
“I’d know his voice anywhere,” Masachika said, and stepped toward the veranda.
An iron pot hurtled toward him. He ducked his head to the side just in time. The pot struck him on the shoulder, knocking him to his knees.
A mocking voice, nothing like Kiyoyori’s, came from the house, saying, “Your brother’s wife is the Matsutani lady, and your brother is the Kuromori lord. What are you, Masachika? Neither Kakizuki nor Miboshi, you are nothing!”
More shrieks of laughter followed, as the spirits hurled out kitchen utensils and household objects, a bamboo dipper, two small brooms, a lacquer tray, and several quite valuable bowls, which smashed to pieces on the path.
“It must be some local urchins,” Masachika said furiously. “I’ll cut off their ears; I’ll sell them to the silver mines.”
This threat only caused more hilarity among the spirits.
Masachika had retreated out of range back to the gate. Behind him he could hear that the men had regrouped. They were probably waiting, with callous curiosity, to see what he would do next. His authority was slipping away. He called out, “Who will drive these brats from my house?”
No one moved or spoke.
“What? Are you all afraid?”
Yasuie said at his side, “They are afraid of no one human. Beings from another world, that’s another matter.”
A young man appeared in the gateway. He was of huge size, a head taller than Masachika, and carried a long spear heavier than most men could lift. He was Yasuie’s younger brother, Yasunobu.
“I will get rid of them for you, Lord Masachika.”
“Brother, don’t go in there,” Yasuie said. “No one will despise you.”
“But I would despise myself,” the youth said, his voice light. “Now I have offered, I must—or allow my name to be remembered as a coward’s.”
Holding his spear out in front of him, he ran to the veranda and leaped inside. There came two fierce shrieks followed by a howl of pain. Yasunobu came flying out from the house, pierced through the stomach by his own spear. He fell with such force he was nailed to the ground.
Yasuie and Masachika ran to him, but there was nothing to be done. His life’s blood was pouring from him. As they tried to pry the spear from the ground a rain of small insects like bees fell around their heads, stinging them on their faces and hands, each sting an intense spark of pain. But Yasuie would not leave his brother, whose screams were subsiding into a ragged panting, and Masachika felt he could not retreat without him.
Finally, the spear came loose and, as Yasuie eased it out, Yasunobu’s panting ceased. They lifted the body between them and carried it beyond the gate. Once they were outside the walls, the insects left them. Masachika could feel his face swelling, his eyes closing up.
He glanced up at the sun, its rays making his face ache even more. A few hours of
daylight still remained. He must act to remove the humiliation the spirits had inflicted on him. He would go at once to Kuromori. The only hope of succeeding was in a surprise attack from behind, down the steep slope of the mountain at the rear of the fortress. The defenders would not be expecting that. He would go immediately before any reckless farmer thought to warn them.
Yasuie wept beside the corpse, tears oozing from eyes that had closed to slits.
“Stay and bury him,” Masachika said. “The rest of you come with me. We will take Kuromori, and then we will return and deal with whatever evil it is that has possessed this place.”
There was a slight murmur from the men, not quite grumbling or dissent. Masachika said, “If anyone prefers squatting here sucking eggs to battle, he can help Yasuie bury his brother. All names will be recorded, those who stay and those who come with me.”
All except Yasuie went with him. He led them up the valley, along the stream that flowed from the Darkwood and had once filled the lake at Matsutani. As they left the estate, Masachika recalled the day he had married Tama, the thrill of having a young, beautiful wife, the shock of her brother’s death, how he had consoled her, rejoicing silently that Matsutani would now be his. And then the nightmare as the two old men, their fathers, put their monstrous plan into practice.
Kiyoyori, to his credit, had tried to persuade them to abandon it, had remonstrated with his father, persisting even in the face of the old man’s terrifying rage. But if Kiyoyori had succeeded in making them change their minds, Masachika would still be Kakizuki, and he would probably now be dead or in flight. He had been given a second chance. If he could take Kuromori, both estates would be his. The pain in his hands and face did not let him forget that Matsutani was haunted, but he did not dwell on it. He would find some sorcerer or other to get rid of the spirits, and in the meantime, no one else would be able to snatch his jewel from him.
He followed tracks he had often galloped along with his brother. How many hours of their lives had they spent exploring the forest and the mountain? Throughout their boyhood they had devised strategies to attack and defend the fortress that was their home, and had practiced endlessly for their adult life as warriors, with their bows, swords, and horses.
Now, as he and his men rode farther into the forest, he ran through those strategies. They would ascend the mountain behind the fortress and drop down on it from above, as if from the heavens. But, to avoid lookouts and guards, they must leave the stream and strike out to the north, turning east once they were past Kuromori.
He was sure this made sense, yet his mind was clouding as though he had a fever, and he was having trouble seeing. The terrain was rough, scattered with boulders, and very steep. The horses quickened their pace into a clumsy canter, stumbling and plunging. When they reached the small plateau where they would turn east, they were breathing hard and sweating more than ever. A couple had grazed their knees and blood oozed through the hair.
Masachika did not allow any rest but led them on at a gallop. Between the trunks of the pine trees the last rays of the sun threw their speeding shadows before them. Then the red orb slipped behind the western mountains, turning the sky vermilion. The white moon in the east slowly became silver.
By the time they came to the top of the crag above the fortress, it was close to nightfall. Below them, smoke rose from fires and a few lamps gleamed. It was impossible to tell how many men held the fortress and too dark to see if the northern side was defended. But he would not wait till dawn; the chances of being discovered were too great. He had forbidden the men from speaking since the time they had left the plateau, but no one could keep a horse from neighing.
He allowed himself a moment to peer down on Kuromori, now at last within his grasp. Ignoring the pain and the fact that he could hardly see, he made a sign that the men should follow him, and led the way over the edge of the cliff.
There was a path of sorts, just as he remembered, made by foxes or deer. He and Kiyoyori had followed a stag down it, a lifetime ago. The horses crashed down, some squealing in fear while their riders whooped and shouted.
Masachika was in front, but his sight was darkening, and then he realized he could not breathe. His throat was closing. He gasped and choked. It is the bees, he thought, They have poisoned me. His horse stumbled and he went over its head. He was aware of his face in the dirt, of his body struggling for breath, and then a hoof struck him on the back of his head and he lost consciousness.
22
AKI
Aki tried not to look at the dead men and instead stared at the bowman and the two horses as they trotted toward her. She had to decide in seconds whether to cut Yoshi’s throat and then her own or to trust the stranger when he said he would help her. Then she saw the werehawks and knew at once what they were and whom they served—the man her father had hated and feared above all others. One bird was already flying south to tell its master that the fugitive emperor was found. It was time to step into the river of death.
But the birds distracted her, drawing her eyes toward them, making her hesitate. The other bird was now swooping after the first. It seemed faster and larger. She expected to see them both disappear in the direction of the capital, but the second bird caught up with the other and attacked it, striking with its beak and attempting to grasp it with its talons. Both birds were shrieking and a flurry of black feathers fell, swirling, bloodstained, to the ground.
Then the horses, white stallion, brown mare, reached her, and the rider leaped down.
He took the knife from her, with a movement so swift and sure she had no defense against it, and he whistled to the birds, as a hunter calls his falcons. One returned to his shoulder, the other fluttered to the ground a little way off. The man went to it and picked it up, carrying it back gently. Its eyes glazed and it went limp. He knelt, stroking its black feathers, his face intent.
The remaining werehawk had fluttered from his shoulder to the ground and now bowed its head to its dead fellow. Tears seemed to glisten in its eyes and it spoke in a broken voice that Aki did not understand. Then it hopped to where Yoshi was still hiding behind her, stood in front of him, and bobbed its head three times.
“Kon killed Zen,” the man said. “I did not expect that. He wanted to stop him returning to the capital.”
“They are werehawks,” Aki said. “In the service of the Prince Abbot at Ryusonji. You understand their speech, they obey you—or one of them does—so you must serve the Prince Abbot, too.”
“I did,” he said slowly. “But Kon tells me this boy is the Emperor, and you are the Autumn Princess.”
She stared at him. He was tall and lean, with thick black hair tied up like a warrior’s. He looked as though he had been sleeping in the woods, his face slightly stubbled, and dark, either from the sun or dirt. But his skin was smooth, his features pleasing, his leaf-shaped eyes deep black.
“I was known as the Autumn Princess,” she said. “Akihime, people used to call me, in the capital.”
“And people call me Shikanoko or Shika. My name used to be Kazumaru, but I am no longer a child and I do not have an adult name.”
“Shikanoko? The deer’s child? Why are you called that?”
She felt quite calm and unafraid now. She wanted him to keep talking to her. She liked the sound of his voice. She wanted to trust him. Then she remembered the dead men, the swift, unhesitating killing, the werehawk.
Shikanoko said, “I will tell you as we ride.” He knelt before Yoshi. “I am going to lift Your Majesty onto this mare, Risu. Akihime will ride behind you and hold you.”
Genzo sounded a warning, thrumming note.
“I must not be called Majesty,” the child said, “only Yoshi. I must not tell anyone who I am.” He leaned against Aki, shrinking away from Shika. “Does what you said mean my father and grandfather are dead?”
“They have gone to the next world and are awaiting their rebirth,” Aki told him. “My father is there, too, and my mother.”
“
And my mother?”
“When we get to the temple we will pray for their spirits,” Aki said.
The child did not reply, but tears began to trickle down his cheeks. He cried silently. The mare swung her head around and nuzzled him as if he were her foal.
“Kai,” he whimpered. “I want Kai.”
Aki said to Shika, “We were heading for Rinrakuji. My father told me we would find shelter there.”
“And then what? Sooner or later the Miboshi will attack that temple and the Emperor will be discovered.”
“Nevertheless, first we must go to Rinrakuji. I must obey my father.”
“Very well,” Shika said. “I will take you there. But it’s almost dark. Don’t you want to rest a little, you and the child?”
“The moon is almost full and will be rising soon. Surely we can get to the temple before it sets?”
Shika did not say anything more, but lifted Yoshi onto the mare’s back, made a rein from the lead rope, and told Yoshi to hold on to it.
“You don’t need to lift me,” Aki said. “Make a stirrup with your hand and I can jump up.”
He did as she said. Risu had made no objection to the child, but she swung her hindquarters away when Aki tried to mount. Aki slipped down into Shika’s arms. For a moment she felt his body against hers, his hands holding her. Then he muttered an apology and stepped back, giving Risu a smack on her shoulder.
“Stand still!”
“I am not dressed for riding!” Aki hitched up her robe, baring her legs like a farm girl. “I’ll try again. I’ll be ready for her this time.”
The mare’s coat was smooth against her skin, her flesh warm. Aki put her arms around Yoshi and held the rope with one hand. Shika leaped onto the stallion’s back and Kon flew up to his shoulder.
“What about those men?” Aki said as they rode off. “Do we just leave them there?”
“Let them rot,” Shika replied, and then, “Who were they? Did you know them?”