“I have seen my son. He is alive. We have a little time.” He could not say more, for the Prince Abbot’s monks rode on either side of him.
As they descended the last pass into Matsutani they saw the smoke rising in the valley. Kiyoyori urged his horse on and came at a gallop to the west gate. He did not notice the eyes in their niche, though they saw him, saw the monks that rode with him, and noticed how he checked his horse at the sight of the charred beams and the soot-blackened edge of the lake.
His wife came out onto the main veranda, Hina beside her. The child was pale and there were still signs of the bruise on the side of her face. Kiyoyori leaped from his horse and knelt before his daughter, tenderly touched her cheek, and gazed into her eyes.
“I am sorry, Father,” she said. “They took Tsumaru and I couldn’t stop them.”
“Tsumaru is safe,” he said. “He is in the capital at Ryusonji.” For the moment he must act as though it were true, at least until he could get rid of the monks, at least until he heard from Iida no Taro. “You were brave and I am proud of you.”
He rose and looked at his wife, aware that if he spoke he would unleash a torrent of rage and grief. She met his eyes, and he saw a glint of some emotion in them, triumph, regret, remorse, a mixture of all three.
He mastered his own feelings and said, “What have you done?”
“You will thank me. I have cleaned out the nest of sorcery that had infested my—our—home.”
“I may thank you, but the Prince Abbot of Ryusonji certainly will not. He sent these monks to take the scholar and the lady back to the capital in exchange for our son’s life.”
She took a small step back, glancing at the monk and then back at him. He saw her sudden dismay as she realized the meaning of his words.
He turned to the monk whose name he had learned was Gessho. “Those you seek are not here.”
“Where are they?” Gessho demanded.
“The boy took the old man toward Kuromori,” Tama said. “The woman, we believe, died in the fire.”
“Once they are in the Darkwood they are beyond anyone’s reach. As for the woman, show us her bones,” Kiyoyori said, his voice steady. Surely Tora was not dead. He would know if she were.
“There was no trace; the fire was too fierce.” Tama’s chin was raised, her eyes bright with defiance.
She is not dead, he thought.
The short winter daylight was already beginning to fade. When Kiyoyori did not reply, Tama said, “You must all be weary and it is getting cold. Come inside and I will prepare food.”
“We must search the house and grounds before it gets dark,” Gessho said obstinately.
Kiyoyori fought down the urge to execute the monks on the spot, send their heads back to Ryusonji, and accept the consequences—Tsumaru’s death, unless Taro had been successful, and an assault on his estates from both east and west. Grief threatened to overwhelm him—but surely she had escaped; surely he would see her again. He longed for her, he needed her.
There was no trace of either her or Sesshin. His wife had done her work well. The old man’s room had been cleared out, the books, potions, flasks, bones, powders, and everything else had been burned. Gessho made no effort to hide his annoyance. However, in his search he finally came upon the eyes.
He called Kiyoyori and they both stared at the globes, which still shone, and moved and saw. While the monks, not daring to touch them, said prayers and chanted sutras, Kiyoyori went straight to Tama’s rooms.
“What else did you do?” he said. “Whose are those eyes?”
“The sorcerer had put a spell on Hina,” Tama replied without emotion. “He had to be punished.”
“It was not a spell,” Hina said, as though she had repeated it several times. “Someone hit me.”
“Is he dead?” Kiyoyori said to Tama. “Master Sesshin?”
“No,” she replied. “I told the truth. I spared his life and put him in the care of the last of the bandits, the young one.”
“Shikanoko is his name,” Hina said.
“I sent them both away.” She looked calmly at him. “You would never have given them to the Prince Abbot, would you? Not even for our son’s life.”
“I was trying to buy time,” he said. “I cannot be coerced, but while the Prince Abbot thinks I can, he will keep Tsumaru alive. However, you have left me with nothing to offer him.”
“And you blame me?” she cried. “None of this is my fault! Look to your own actions!”
She had never raised her voice to him before and her accusation fueled his anger. He set guards at the doors to her rooms and took Hina to his own quarters. He wrestled, sleepless, with his thoughts, while Hina cried out in her dreams. He would kill his wife with his own hands; he would have her executed; he would force her to shave her head and become a nun.
He could hear the monks chanting all night as they kept vigil by the west gate. The next morning, a dull, cold day, threatening snow, Gessho let the werehawks out. They circled the roofs shrieking and then flew off toward the Darkwood.
“I will follow them,” Gessho said. “There is nothing to be gained by waiting here. These others will return to Ryusonji and tell our master what has happened. You will hear from him in due course. In the meantime I would advise you to do nothing more to arouse his displeasure.”
“If you find Sesshin and Shikanoko will my son be returned to me?” Kiyoyori asked.
“I cannot speak for my master,” Gessho replied.
“I will come with you and help you find them.”
Gessho brushed this offer away. “As I said, do nothing.”
But this was the hardest thing to do, to wait day after day for news that never came. One moment he thought he must ride at once to the capital, the next that he must go in the other direction to Minatogura to press his own claim at Lord Miboshi Aritomo’s famous tribunal. The thought of how his brother was undermining him in this way made his feelings toward Tama even colder, and he sought neither to comfort her nor to ask her advice. Sleeplessness made him irrational and his men began to fear the edge of his temper and question his judgment.
He had his wife confined to another pavilion, far out in the lake, accessible only by boat.
“You may have some items of worship,” he said. “Spend your time in atonement.”
Her serving women packed up two golden statues, and silks and needles for embroidery. Every day one or other of them was rowed out to take food and keep her company, but at night she was alone.
12
SHIKANOKO
Shikanoko and Sesshin stopped for a few hours on the stream’s bank, huddled together for warmth. At dawn frost covered the blanket they shared and the horses’ manes. They had nothing to eat and the water from the stream was so cold it made their teeth ache.
“Are you in pain?” Shika asked as he bathed the old man’s face, carrying water in the flask the servant girl had thrust into his hands.
“Pain is a transient sensation. It will pass.”
“I suppose hunger is, too, but I don’t know if it is going to pass,” Shika muttered.
“I will teach you to conquer both hunger and pain,” Sesshin said, but his voice was faint.
The horses had cleared the ground of grass and were tearing at the tree bark. Shika saddled them and helped Sesshin onto Risu’s back. He rode with his bow ready, but nothing stirred in the forest, no birds, no rabbits, not even a squirrel. The cedars gave way to ancient beeches and live oaks. Beneath the beeches lay the autumn mast in hard reddish pods. Shika dismounted and gathered handfuls, cracking them open in his teeth, but the kernels were thin and barely nourishing.
“Don’t you have some magic that will tell us where to go or where to find something to eat?”
“My boy, I have suffered a setback. I need to learn the lesson it has for me before my powers revive.”
“Should we return to Matsutani?” Shika wondered aloud. “Maybe Lord Kiyoyori will be back by now.”
“We hav
e been delivered from the Prince Abbot once. We should not put ourselves within his grasp again.”
“Well, he certainly won’t find us here! No one will even find our bones!”
Later that day, after they had left the stream and turned eastward, Shika, riding ahead, came on a small clearing and was able to shoot a rabbit before it reached the cover of the undergrowth. He made a fire and cooked the animal, feeding pieces to Sesshin. A little water had gathered among the roots of two trees twisted together. He helped Sesshin drink and lapped at it himself, until the horses pushed him away. The food made him thirstier. It was going to be another cold night.
“Can you hear water?” he said to Sesshin.
“I can hear a waterfall very far away.”
“We must go at first light.”
“I will teach you a water meditation,” Sesshin said. “Once you master it you can go without water indefinitely.”
“But can you teach it to the horses?”
Sesshin did not reply, but arranged himself, cross-legged on the ground, pulling the blanket around him.
After tethering the horses securely, Shika sat down next to him.
Sesshin said, “I sat under a waterfall for seven days and seven nights. The water entered my body and entered my bones and then my soul. I can call on it at any time.” His voice droned on while within Shika thirst began to build unbearably. His throat burned, his mouth dried out, his lips were stretched taut and parched.
“Come close to me and place your mouth on mine,” Sesshin said quietly.
Shika did so and a gush of cool water rushed into him, spilling over his lips.
I am dreaming, he thought, I will awaken soon and be thirstier than ever.
The flow of water stopped, his thirst was slaked, and suddenly sleep overwhelmed him.
The next morning, Sesshin was lethargic and feverish.
“I should not have done that,” he said, rambling a little.
“The water thing? Can you do it again?”
“Not for a while. You can see how it’s weakened me.”
“Then we must ride on.”
“Let’s rest for a day or two until I get some strength back.”
Shika studied the old man. “I’ll take the horses up to the falls while you rest here. I’ll come back.”
“Very well. I won’t be going anywhere.”
Before he left he made a pile of firewood so Sesshin could keep the fire alight. It was a steep climb up the ridge and took most of the day. Once he and the horses had reached the top and could see across the valleys, Shika realized where he was. The waterfall fell down the opposite cliff face, and the stream it formed flowed south toward Kumayama, his childhood home. To the north, beyond the mountains that lay in folds, violet in the evening light, was Shisoku’s place. That would certainly be a refuge, but to get there he would have to fall down the cliff again. Still, knowing where he was made him feel better.
The horses caught the scent of water and began to scramble down the slope, crashing through the bushes and slipping on boulders. Shika clung to Nyorin’s back, trusting him not to stumble.
Spray filled the air and the roar of the falls drowned out all other noise. The horses drank steadily. It was bitterly cold despite the winter sun, which had broken through the cloud cover and shone for a short while before dropping behind the mountains in the west. He would not get back before dark. The only vessel he had to carry water was the small bamboo flask. He found some roots of water plants, and a crab under a stone, and ate them both raw. Risu lay down and he settled beside her, his head on her belly. All night he was tormented by the idea of cutting her throat and drinking the warm blood. In the morning she looked at him reproachfully as though she knew what he was thinking.
He mounted Nyorin and set off back over the ridge. He shot and wounded a hare on the slope and spent some time tracking it down. It took longer to get back and darkness overtook him again before he came to the clearing. He could smell the smoke and see the flames. His heart swelled with relief. If the fire was still alight, Sesshin was probably still alive.
The old man stirred at Shika’s approach but did not seem able to speak. Shika dripped some water into his mouth and set about skinning the hare. After feeding Sesshin he held him in his arms all night, trying to keep him warm. In the morning he seemed a little better, but still could not move.
The next day Shika let the horses go, still saddled, for there was no way he could carry their harness. He and Sesshin could share the water he had brought if they rationed themselves, but the horses had to drink. They grazed in the clearing for a while, keeping an eye on him, and then they wandered away. For a while he heard the noise of their progress through the woods, then silence returned. He hoped they would wait for him at the waterfall, but he couldn’t help fearing he would not see them again.
Sesshin slowly recovered. Shika lost count of the days, but one afternoon Sesshin said, “I am sorry to have to tell you this, but someone is following us, guided by werehawks.”
Shika listened, but could hear nothing beyond the usual sounds of the forest. A wood pigeon was calling monotonously and the wind rustled the beeches.
“How can you tell?”
“I heard twigs break, and the cry of the birds.”
“How could you? I can’t hear anything, with younger and sharper ears.”
“Once I underwent a ritual that was meant to give me farsight, so I could see into distant places. It failed, for reasons connected with the nature of light, but when I recovered I found my hearing had increased a hundredfold. It was something of a burden—you may have noticed I used to plug my ears with wax—but now I am blind, it will prove very useful. This is why you should never concern yourself over your fate; everything follows the laws of destiny and therefore happens for a purpose.”
“So, are we going to let this person, whoever it is, capture us, or is it our fate to escape?”
“I think we should make every effort not to be taken by one of the Prince Abbot’s monks,” Sesshin said, struggling to his feet. “I don’t relish that prospect at all.”
“But can you walk?”
“I will lean on your shoulder.”
They made a slow, painful progress up the slope toward the top of the ridge. Shika could see where the horses had been before them, the broken branches where they had torn at leaves, their hoofprints in the soft earth. When they came to the summit he spotted Nyorin’s white coat through the leaves below. They had found their way down to the waterfall and were still there. His heart filled with joy, and he let out a loud whistle. Nyorin whinnied in reply, echoed by the mare.
A bird shrieked above him.
“Hurry,” Sesshin said. “They are here.”
Pulling the old man after him, Shika half-slid, half-scrambled down the slope. The birds swooped over his head twice, then circled away, calling loudly. When they reached the bottom, Sesshin was trembling with fatigue. The horses trotted up to them, happy to see Shika. Risu’s saddle had slipped around her belly and Nyorin had broken his reins. Shika quickly righted the saddle and lifted Sesshin onto the mare’s back. He knotted the stallion’s reins as best he could and swung himself up. There was no other way to go but downstream toward his old home, and in truth an irresistible longing had come over him to set eyes on it once more, before fleeing farther into the mountains.
The valley widened and slowly signs of human life began to appear. Irrigation ditches ran into small fields that lay fallow under vegetable waste and manure. In every corner stood trees, leafless now, but he knew each one, peach, loquat, mulberry. Smoke hung in the still air and its woody scent brought tears to his eyes. Not until this moment had he realized how much he had missed it all. His heart was thick with emotion and it made him careless.
“Look out!” Sesshin cried, at the same time as Shika heard the arrow whistling toward him and the shriek of the werehawks as they dived at his head. He pulled Risu close, dropped the lead rein, and sent her forward with a slap on
her rump, then plucked an arrow from the quiver, brought Nyorin to a halt, and spun around. One of the werehawks raked his cheek with its beak, drawing blood.
A man was riding toward him, bow drawn, shouting in a voice so loud it echoed around the valley.
“I am the warrior monk Gessho, from Ryusonji! In the name of the Prince Abbot, surrender yourselves to me. I am commanded to bring you to him.”
Shika tried to shoot toward him, but the werehawks flapped around his head, obscuring his sight; one seized the arrow in its claws and flew away with it. Nyorin, alarmed by the birds, gave a huge buck and bolted after Risu.
Another arrow whistled past Shika’s head. They came to a fork in the track; the horses turned to the left and galloped into a group of armed men, led by Shika’s uncle, Sademasa.
* * *
Sademasa recognized him at once, Shika was sure. His uncle’s face, beneath the elaborate horned helmet, paled as if he had seen a ghost. He thought the men also knew who he was, but they surrounded him with drawn swords, and he was afraid they would kill him and Sesshin without asking any questions.
“Uncle,” he called out, as he calmed Nyorin. “It is I, Kazumaru.” He reached out for Risu’s rein and spoke softly to her. Both horses were breathing heavily. Sesshin turned his bandaged eyes toward the voices, listening carefully.
“My nephew is dead,” Sademasa replied. “Who are you, imposter, and how dare you ride up to me with such an outrageous claim?”
“You know who I am. You were there when I fell off the mountain a year ago. Lord Kiyoyori took me into his service.”
“If you serve the Kuromori lord what are you doing here with this sightless beggar?”
Above their heads the werehawks were shrieking in triumph. The monk, who had named himself as Gessho, rode up, shouting. “Lower your swords. Do not harm these men. My lord, I am under orders from the Prince Abbot of Ryusonji to bring them directly to him, alive.”
One of Sademasa’s men said, “He does look like Kazumaru. What if it is him?” Shika knew him; his name was Naganori.
“Maybe he is a shape-shifter,” Gessho declared, “who can take on the likeness of anyone, even the dead.”