“I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly, moving away from her, letting her go.
She made no effort to get up or to cover herself but gazed at him with an extraordinary look that he had never seen before. She said, “I am your wife. This is the one thing you don’t have to apologize for. If you are still capable, that is.”
The finest line separated the intensity of hatred from the intensity of love. Moe was more aroused by his rage than by his tenderness. She wanted his anger, when she had despised his gentleness. The act between them was as much one of violence as one of love. Yet at the moment of his surrender, he felt a rush of tenderness for her, a desire to own and protect her.
Their married life assumed its own distorted pattern, woven from the fractured and twisted threads of their lives. Throughout the day Moe acted like an exemplary wife, quiet, deferential to her mother-in-law, hardworking. But when she and Shigeru were alone, she sought to incite his rage and then submit to it. She drew the anger to her as a tall pine draws lightning and was herself both ignited and damaged by his response. He still moved and lived in a state of unreality, keeping himself busy during the day, studying, often with Ichiro, at night; the steady beat of the rainfall, the damp moist air, the smell of mold all came between him and the real world. Sometimes he thought he had become a living ghost and would drift away into the mist. The rage that Moe aroused in him, coupled with desire and its release, served a strange purpose in anchoring him to reality. He was grateful to her for it, but any expression of tenderness invoked scorn in her, so he never spoke of it.
By the time the plum rains ended, she had conceived a child. Shigeru was torn between delight and foreboding. When he saw himself, as he was occasionally able to, as a simple warrior-farmer, he imagined the joy children would bring into his life; when he considered his role as the dispossessed heir to the clan, he knew that a child, especially a son, could only add to the danger of his position. How long would he be allowed to live? If his uncles’ rule was just, soon the Otori clan would forget him; they would settle down peacefully under his uncles’ rule. His life would be irrelevant to them; his death would go unmourned. If, as he feared, Shoichi and Masahiro continued to exploit the resources of the clan for their own benefit and unrest increased, his survival would be even more precarious. He would become a focus for the hopes for the renewal of the world and the return to just government that turned into sparks and ignited revolts among peasants and farmers. His uncles would see him as a constant incitement to rebellion. If he was to live long enough to achieve revenge, he needed to walk a careful path between being too visible and being forgotten altogether. He feared a son would present too great a challenge to his uncles to ignore, yet he longed for a child: the heir to his father’s blood, the true heir to the clan.
He feared also for Moe’s health. The pregnancy was difficult: she could hardly eat and vomited often. From time to time the thought crossed his mind that their brutal coupling could only result in a monstrous child.
Moe no longer came to him at night; in fact, they hardly spoke anymore. She retreated into the women’s part of the house, where Chiyo looked after her, persuading her to eat, massaging her legs and back, brewing soporific teas to allay the sickness.
35
Shigeru’s next concern was the coming Festival of the Dead. It had been his custom, at this time, whenever possible, to visit Terayama, where many of his ancestors were buried. He had heard that his father’s ashes had been taken there after the battle, but he had not attended the funeral; nor had any ceremony been conducted in Hagi—only his brief prayers in the Tribe village. It was his duty, he felt, to go there now, to pay his respects to his father and have prayers said for him, their ancestors, and the Otori dead, and to escort his brother home, for Takeshi was still at the temple. And he longed to see Matsuda Shingen, to hear from the Abbot some words of wisdom that would teach him the way to live the rest of his life.
He spoke to Ichiro of his desire to travel to Terayama, and the older man said he would approach the Otori lords and see if such a journey would be permitted. Rage swept through Shigeru at the implications of this reply; he was no longer free to travel through the Middle Country; he had to seek his uncles’ permission in everything. But he was more able now to control his anger, and he gave no indication of it to Ichiro, merely asking him to seek permission as soon as possible, as arrangements needed to be made and he wanted to send messages ahead to Matsuda.
He did not receive a direct refusal, but constant evasive replies made him realize that permission either would not be granted or would be given too late for him to arrive at the temple before the first day of the festival. He decided to take matters into his own hands and put on the disguise that he had worn with Muto Kenji: the old, unmarked traveling robe and the sedge hat; he wrapped Jato’s hilt in sharkskin, took a small pouch of food and a string of coins, crossed the river at night by the fish weir, and began to walk through the mountains.
If anyone challenged him, he had decided he would say he was on a pilgrimage to one of the remote shrines in the mountains to the south of Hagi, but no one seemed to suspect his identity. The months after the battle had seen many masterless or dispossessed warriors crossing the Three Countries, making their way home or seeking refuge in the forest, often resorting to petty banditry to survive. He realized his face and person were not known; people did not recognize him. When they had looked at him before, they had seen not him, the individual, but the heir to their clan. Now that he no longer traveled with all of the trappings of Lord Otori, he was invisible. It was both a shock and a relief.
Many people traveled with their faces hidden, wrapped in scarves or concealed beneath conical hats like his. He walked, seemingly deep in his thoughts, as impenetrable as any black covering, but studying the land as he passed through it, taking note of the state of the rice fields, the management of the forests, the fields cut from the mountainside where villagers grew vegetables, fenced with stakes against wild boars. It was high summer, the rice fields brilliant green, the forests deep and shaded, sonorous with the strident cicadas, the air heavy and humid. The forest echoed with birdsong and the sound of insects; and every night the cries of frogs rang from the dikes and pools.
He kept away from the high roads, following steep narrow tracks, getting lost from time to time but always continuing south, until he came to the hut where he had spent the summer with Matsuda. He arrived at dusk, startling the tanuki, which dived under the veranda, and spent the night in the hut. It seemed to have been closed for some time: the air was musty, the embers in the fine gray ash long cold. It was filled with memories for him, of Matsuda’s teaching, of Miura’s death, of the fox-spirit who had become a friend called Muto Kenji; he ate the last of the food he had brought with him and then sat in meditation on the veranda while the starry vault of the sky wheeled above him and the tanuki went out on its nighttime prowling; when it returned just before dawn, Shigeru also retired inside the hut and slept for a few hours. He awoke refreshed, feeling somehow more whole than he had for months, breakfasted on spring water, and resumed the last stage of his journey.
In the middle of the day, he rested for a while beneath the massive oak where he had seen the houou. He could still recall, clearly imprinted in his mind, its white feather, tipped with red. Matsuda had spoken to him then of death, of choosing the right path toward making his death significant—but now he was still alive when so many had died; had he made the right choice? Or would the result of his actions simply be to drive the houou away from the Middle Country, never to return?
There was no sign of the warriors who Kitano had said were surrounding the temple—maybe when the surrender treaty was signed they had all returned to Yamagata, its many inns and beautiful women, or had gone home to Tsuwano to prepare for the harvest. Nevertheless, despite the apparent peace and tranquillity of the temple, the serene curve of the roofs against the deep green of the forest, the white doves fluttering around the eaves, endlessly croo-crooing,
Matsuda Shingen could not hide his concern at Shigeru’s arrival. Shigeru had just walked into the main courtyard and spoken to one of the monks raking the gravel and sweeping the paths—the temple was not fortified at that time, and the main gate was kept open from dawn to midnight. The monk, mistaking him for an ordinary traveler, had directed him to the guest rooms. It was only when Shigeru removed the hat he wore and asked to speak to the Abbot that he was recognized and taken at once to Matsuda’s office. He knelt before the old man, but Matsuda rose, stepped swiftly toward him, and embraced him.
“You have come alone, in these clothes? It is hardly safe for you. You must know what danger you are in.”
“I felt I had to celebrate the Festival of the Dead in this place,” Shigeru said. “This year above all I must honor my father’s spirit and those of the fallen.”
“I will show you where Lord Shigemori’s ashes were buried. But first let me call your brother. You must long to see him.” Matsuda clapped his hands, and when the monk who had escorted Shigeru reappeared, he asked him to fetch Takeshi.
“Is he well?” Shigeru asked.
“Physically he’s in good health—excellent. But since the news of the defeat and your father’s death, he has been very disturbed—angry and defiant. He has threatened to run away several times. For his own safety, I try to keep a close watch on him, but the constant supervision irks him.”
“In other words, he has become very difficult,” Shigeru said. “I will take him off your hands. He must return to Hagi.”
“Lord Kitano has offered to send an escort,” Matsuda said. “But Takeshi refuses to go with him, saying he does not keep company with traitors.”
“I have been concerned that Kitano might attempt to delay him in Tsuwano, thus turning him into a hostage,” Shigeru said. “I would prefer to take him back with me.”
“But then your journey would be revealed to everyone,” Matsuda warned him.
“My journey was not sanctioned by my uncles, but it was completely justifiable,” Shigeru replied. “I must perform the necessary ceremony for my father, here, where his ashes are buried, and at this time, the Festival of the Dead.”
“Iida will seize on the slightest pretext as proof that you broke the terms of the surrender. I don’t see how he will allow you to live. He will have you either assassinated in secret or executed publicly. You are safe only if you stay in what’s left of the Middle Country, in Hagi.”
“I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life in what amounts to prison!”
“Then how will you spend it?” Matsuda gave no sign of sympathy, regret for the defeat, or recrimination. Shigeru had acted from the best of his knowledge and ability. He had been defeated, but the action had been the right one. This attitude strengthened and comforted Shigeru far more than any pity would have done.
“I will become a farmer, among other things; I will retire from the world. And I will wait.” These answers came to him now, in the quietness of the temple. “But I need to know the land. I intend to walk it and discover it. Even Iida cannot see that as a provocation. My self, my person, will be my weapons against him. Everything that Iida is not, I will become. I must live—to counter him, to defeat him, even if I only outlive him. If I can provoke him to murder me, my death will achieve what my life cannot. And I will come here every year I can; I hope you will continue to advise and teach me.”
“Naturally I will be glad to, as long as I am not endangering your life further.”
“I would have killed myself on the battlefield,” Shigeru felt bound to explain. “But my father’s sword, Jato, was delivered into my hands, and I believe it was a command to me to live.”
“If the sword came to you, it must be for a purpose,” Matsuda said. “Your life is not yet fulfilled. But the path from here on will be much harder than the one you have already traveled.”
“I no longer know who I am,” Shigeru confessed. “What am I, if I am not the head of the clan?”
“This is what you will learn,” Matsuda said. “What it is that makes you a man. It will be a harder battle than Yaegahara.”
Shigeru was silent for a few moments. “My wife is expecting a child,” he said abruptly.
“I hope it is a girl,” Matsuda said. “Your uncles will be very disturbed if you have a son.”
They were interrupted by a sound outside, and the door slid open. Takeshi rushed in and threw himself at his brother as Shigeru rose to embrace him. Shigeru felt his eyes grow hot; he held Takeshi by the shoulders and looked at him. Takeshi had grown and filled out; his face was thinner and more mature, showing the high cheekbones and strong nose that gave the Otori their hawkish look. Takeshi’s eyes were bright, and he sniffed a couple of times but fought back tears.
“Have you come here to kill yourself?” he demanded. “You must let me join you. Lord Matsuda will assist us.”
“No, we are going to live,” Shigeru replied. “It was our father’s express wish. We will live.”
“Then we must take to the mountains and fight the Tohan there!” Takeshi exclaimed. “We can rally what is left of the Otori army!”
Shigeru interrupted him. “We can only do what is possible. I have signed the surrender treaty and have agreed to retire from political life. You must do the same, unless you want to serve our uncles, swear allegiance to the Tohan, and fight for them.”
He remembered his concern about Takeshi’s future: he had hoped to give him a domain of his own. Now that would never happen. What would Takeshi do with the rest of his life?
“Swear allegiance to the Tohan?” Takeshi repeated incredulously. “If you were not my brother, I would think you were insulting me! We must act with honor—it is all that is left to us. I would rather take my own life than serve my uncles!”
“That is something I forbid you to do. You are not yet an adult; you must obey me.”
“You are no longer the heir to the clan.” Takeshi’s voice was bitter; it was clear he sought to wound him.
“But I am still your older brother.” Shigeru could understand that Takeshi was disappointed in him; nevertheless, he found it painful.
“Lord Shigeru is right,” Matsuda said mildly. “You must obey him. He wants you to return to Hagi with him.”
“I suppose anything’s preferable to staying here,”Takeshi muttered. “But what am I to do in Hagi?”
“There will be much to do: continue your studies, assist me.” And learn what I have to learn, Shigeru thought, how to be a man.
“Tomorrow we will bid our father farewell,” he said. “As soon as the festival is over, we will return home.”
TAKESHI DID NOT weep during the short service, but he obeyed Shigeru without argument and said good-bye to Matsuda with gratitude, for all his teaching, and what seemed like sincere affection. They returned the same way Shigeru had come, on foot, in unmarked clothes, through the mountains.
Takeshi asked once, “Is this how we must always be, from now on?”
“It is very hard,” Shigeru admitted. “And will get harder still. But it will not be forever.”
Takeshi’s face, which had been sullen and closed, brightened a little. “We will take our revenge?”
They were alone in a way that they might not be again for months or years. Shigeru said quietly, “We will. I promise you that. Our father’s death and our defeat will be avenged. But it means secrecy and deception, something neither of us has ever practiced. We have to learn how to do nothing.”
“But not forever?” Takeshi said and smiled.
THE WEEKS PASSED. Life resumed its rhythms. In order to keep Takeshi occupied, Shigeru found his own days filled. Takeshi no longer trained in the castle areas with his cousins and the other boys and young men of the clan. Instead, Shigeru taught him on the riverbank or in the forest. Miyoshi Kahei and his younger brother, Gemba, often accompanied them with their father’s permission and many other young men sneaked away to observe, for Shigeru, taught by Matsuda, had become a swordsman of great skill,
and Takeshi seemed set to equal or even surpass him.
One day Mori Hiroki, Kiyoshige’s brother and the last surviving son of the horsebreaker’s family, was among the small crowd at the edge of the river. He had been dedicated to the shrine of the river god six years ago, after the stone battle in which his oldest brother, Yuta, had drowned and Takeshi had nearly died. He was now fourteen years old. He approached Shigeru after the training session and asked if he might speak to him.