Shigeru dreaded being struck, not from fear of pain but from the ignominy. He could never forget that he was the heir to the Otori clan: his role and his position had been impressed upon his nature before he could even talk. At his mother’s house he had been beaten in punishment for various childish misdemeanors, but since he had lived in the castle, no one had raised a hand against him. No one would have dared, even if there had been a need.
He had suffered the usual mishaps of growing up—concussion from a fall from a horse; a fractured cheekbone from a blow in practice, which turned one side of his face purple; bruises and other scars. From all these he had learned to ignore pain. When finally he could keep his eyelids up no longer and felt his whole body plunge toward sleep, the cuff from the priest was not hard, just enough to wake him. It did not hurt, but it enraged him, sending such a wave of fury from his belly he thought he would faint if he did not immediately hurt someone in return. He clenched his fists and his jaw, struggling to control it, trying to submit his emotions to the calm dispassionate words of the sutras, seeking to let go of all striving, all desires . . .
But it was impossible: though he sat motionless, his heart smoldered in rage. He was full of desire and passion, full of energy. Why was he squandering all that in this dreary, lifeless place? He did not have to remain: he was wasting his time. He was not even receiving the teaching he had been so eagerly looking forward to. Matsuda was treating him with scorn; so was everyone in the temple. He could leave; no one could stop him: he was the heir to the clan. He could do what he wanted: he did not have to master his desires. He could have them all gratified—he had the power to command whomever he wanted. It was on his father’s wishes that he was here, but he saw his father with a sudden flash of clarity as a weak, self-indulgent, wavering man who did not merit obedience. I would lead the clan better than he. I would not tolerate my uncles’ greed; I would act at once to deal with the Tohan. The Kitano boys would not now be in Inuyama. Then he began to imagine that his uncles had had a say in sending him away, that their influence over his father was greater when he was not there, that even now they were scheming their takeover of the clan while he moldered away here in the gloom and the rain. The idea was intolerable.
Not only was it possible for him to leave, but it was his duty.
These thoughts occupied him for the rest of the day. He lay awake that night despite his tiredness, imagining the women he would have brought to him when he got to Yamagata, the hot baths he would take, the food he would eat. He would leave in the morning, walk down to the inn where his men waited for him, and ride away. No one would dare stop him.
When the bell sounded at midnight, the rain had ceased, though it was still intensely humid. Shigeru felt sticky with sweat; his eyes scratched; his whole body was restless and uncomfortable. Mosquitoes whined around him as he hurried back from the privy. Owls hooted and stars appeared overhead as the clouds broke up. Dawn was still several hours away. If it was not raining, perhaps they would work outside today—but it did not matter to him. He was not going to sneak away like a thief but would simply leave.
After meditation he wanted to change into his own clothes, but they had been stored away. He thought of sending for them but decided against it. He went into the study hall, intending to inform the novice master of his intentions. The other boys were preparing their inkstones for writing practice.
Before he could speak, the older man said, “Don’t sit down, Lord Shigeru. You are to go to Matsuda today.”
“What for?” Shigeru said, somewhat impolitely, confused by this sudden obstacle to his plans, and by its timing.
“He will tell you.” The old man smiled at him and took up the scroll for dictation.
“Begin writing,” he said to the other novices. “The causes of human suffering are manifold. . . .”
“Where will I find him?” Shigeru asked.
“He is waiting for you in his room, across the cloister—the third on the left. Wakefulness is the way to life; the fool sleeps as if he were already dead.” One of the boys stifled a groan.
As Shigeru left the room, he could hear the teacher’s voice continue: “But the master is awake, and he lives forever.”
“Ah, Lord Shigeru.” Matsuda was on his feet, dressed as if he were going on a journey. “The rain has stopped. We can set out today.”
“Sir, where are we going?”
“To study the art of the sword. Isn’t that why your father sent you?” Without waiting for an answer, he indicated two wooden swords lying on the floor. “Pick those up.”
As Shigeru followed him back around the cloister into the entrance, Matsuda said over his shoulder, “But perhaps you have decided to leave us.”
They both paused on the edge of the boards to step into sandals. Matsuda hitched up his robe and tied it into his sash, leaving his legs bare.
“You’d better do the same,” he said. “Otherwise you’ll get your clothes soaked. Skin dries quicker than cloth.”
Puddles dotted the gravel of the courtyard, and the earth smelled of mud and rain. Beyond the gate, the moss of the farther courtyard was a brilliant green. Water still dripped from the heavy thatch of the older roofs, but the sky between the scudding gray and white clouds was a deep summer blue.
“Well?” the old man prompted, looking up into Shigeru’s face.
“I would not leave without consulting you.”
“You are the heir to the clan, Lord Otori. You can do what you want. There is no need for you to consult an old fool like me.”
Shigeru felt the blood tingle in his neck and cheeks. There was nothing he could say. The only choices were to grow angry and leave or to follow Matsuda docilely. He swallowed his rage, feeling as if it burned his gullet.
“You have done me a great honor by agreeing to teach me,” he said. “I think I am a far greater fool than you have ever been.”
“Possibly, possibly.” The old man grunted, smiling to himself. “But then, we’re all fools at fifteen.” He called out, and one of the monks came across the courtyard from the kitchens, carrying two bundles on a carrying pole, fire in a small iron pot, and a bamboo basket.
“Carry these,” Matsuda said, indicating the bundles. He picked up the iron pot and basket himself, sniffing appreciatively.
Shigeru lifted the pole and put it across one shoulder, the two wooden swords across the other. The monk returned with two conical straw hats, which he placed on the others’ heads.
He might be the heir to the clan, but with bare legs, a pole across his shoulders, face hidden under a deep hat, he looked and felt like a servant. He swallowed again, the irritation abrading him inside.
“Good-bye.” Matsuda nodded briefly to the monk.
“When shall we expect you?” he replied.
“Oh, sometime. Whenever.” Matsuda waved vaguely. “You’d better send some more supplies if we’re not back in a month.”
The smell from the basket was already making Shigeru’s stomach ache with hunger, but it seemed a depressingly small amount of food for a month.
The deep shade of the outer gate was pleasant; beyond, the sun seemed hotter and the air stickier. They did not take the stepped path that led down to the inn at the foot of the mountain but instead went upward, following a small stream that cascaded down the slope.
The bundles were not heavy, but it was awkward carrying them through the heavy undergrowth, and the footing was slippery. Insects whined around his head and horseflies bit. Matsuda went at a swift pace, clambering upward as agilely as a monkey, while Shigeru scrambled behind him. Before long he was dripping, soaked as much by the wet grasses and bushes as by his own sweat.
After two hours or so, the path turned away from the stream, toward the northwest. They stopped there to rest for a few moments, drank from the cool water, and splashed it on hands and face.
“I’m glad you decided not to leave,” Matsuda said airily, taking off his hat and wiping his face on his sleeve. “Had you done so, I mi
ght have felt obliged to accept Iida Sadayoshi’s invitation to visit him at Inuyama.”
“Inuyama?” Shigeru repeated, astonished. “Why would you go there?”
“Sadayoshi seems to think his son would benefit from my teaching. He would not risk sending him into the Middle Country; he hopes I will go to him.”
“And you would have gone?”
“Well, I don’t like Inuyama. It’s too hot in the summer and freezing in winter. But the Iida are not a family to be lightly insulted,” Matsuda replied. “And Sadamu has a growing reputation as a mighty warrior.”
“But you have become a monk: you have given up that life.”
“I’ve learned I am a teacher above all. A teacher is nothing without worthy pupils who value and appreciate his teaching. I don’t know how much Iida’s son could learn from me, to be honest. He is already in his twenties: habits good or bad are usually set irrevocably by then.”
“You will not teach Iida Sadamu or anyone else from the Tohan,” Shigeru said furiously. “I forbid it and my father would too!”
Matsuda said, “If there are any worthy among the Otori, I do not need to look elsewhere.”
Shigeru remembered his thoughts from the previous night; all those desires now seemed shallow and frivolous. Yet to open his mouth and plead his own case seemed equally contemptible. He stood and picked up the carrying pole and the wooden swords, saying nothing, determined to master his anger and his pride.
They walked mostly through forest, though sometimes this cleared into grassy slopes dotted with flowers—clover, buttercups, pink vetch. Twice, startled deer leaped away, and once a cock pheasant rose whirring almost under their feet. Kites mewed overhead, their dark pinions outlined against the blue sky. The clouds were clearing; the breeze came from the south.
Around midday, Matsuda halted on the edge of one of these clearings and sat down on the grass in the shade of a huge oak. He opened the basket and lifted out one of the containers. Six small rice cakes lay on a bed of perilla leaves. Matsuda took one and held out the wicker tray to Shigeru.
Shigeru put his hands together and bowed in thanks; inside his mouth the rice cake seemed even smaller, and by the time it hit his belly, it was no more than a grain. The second one disappeared as quickly and made as little impression on his hunger.
Matsuda made up the fire, adding dry grass and twigs to the glowing charcoal. He seemed in no hurry to continue. He lay back, saying, “There are not many pleasures that can compare to this!”
Shigeru leaned against the oak’s trunk, hands behind his head. Matsuda was right, he thought; it was pleasant to be outside, unknown to anyone, unbothered by retainers and attendants, free to be oneself, to know who one really was. After a while the old man fell asleep. Shigeru’s eyes were heavy, but he did not think he should sleep; he did not want to be taken by surprise and killed by bandits. He gazed up into the branches of the oak; they spread above his head, seeming to touch the sky. The tree had a majesty about it that was almost sacred. Staring up at it lifted his own spirit skyward, made him imagine a world unknown to him that existed all around him and that he had never noticed. Spiders’ webs stretched between the twigs, catching the sun as the south wind stirred them. Insects hummed around the tree, and birds chirped and fluttered among its leaves. . . . And always the drone of the cicadas, the constant sound of summer. It was an entire world to these creatures, giving them food and shelter.
He fell into a sort of waking dream, lulled by the warm afternoon and its myriad sounds. The sun glinted through the dappling leaves; when he closed his eyes, he could still see the patterns black against the red.
He heard a loud and unfamiliar birdcall in the branches above and opened his eyes. Perched just above him was a bird he had only ever seen in pictures, but he knew it at once: it was the houou, the sacred bird that appears when the country is at peace under a just rule. For the Otori it had special meaning, for they wrote their name with the same character and had done so ever since the Emperor had decreed it at the same time as the sword Jato had been given to Takeyoshi and he had married one of the Emperor’s concubines. Shigeru saw its red chest, the flowing pinion of its wings, its bright golden eyes.
It gazed at him with these bright eyes, opened its yellow beak and called again. All other sounds ceased. Shigeru sat transfixed, hardly daring to breathe.
A ripple of wind set the leaves dancing; a ray of sunlight struck his eyes, dazzling him. When he moved his head to look again, the bird was gone.
He jumped to his feet, peering up into the dense foliage, waking Matsuda.
“What is it?” the old man said.
“I thought I saw . . . I must have been dreaming.” Shigeru was half ashamed, thinking he had fallen asleep after all, despite his good intentions. But the dream had been so vivid—and a visitation even in a dream was not to be discounted.
Matsuda stood and bent down to pick up something from the ground. He held out his hand to Shigeru. On his palm lay a single feather, a white plume, its edges tipped red as though it had been dipped in blood. “A houou has been here,” he said quietly. He nodded two or three times and made a grunt of satisfaction. “The right time, the right person,” he said but did not explain more. He put the feather carefully away in the sleeve of his robe.
“I saw it,” Shigeru said excitedly. “Right in front of me; it looked directly at me. Was it real? I thought it was just a myth, something from the past.”
“The past is all around us,” Matsuda replied. “And the future . . . Sometimes we allow ourselves to see into both. Some places seem to act as crossroads: this tree has often proved to be one of them.”
Shigeru was silent. He wanted to ask the older man what it meant, but the words he had spoken had already diminished the memory and he did not want to weaken it further.
“The houou is special to the Otori,” Matsuda said, “but it’s a long time since one has been seen in the Three Countries. Certainly not in my lifetime. There is one feather at the temple, but it is almost decayed from age, so fragile it is no longer exposed to the air; it would fall apart at once. I will keep this. It is a message for your future: that it is you who will bring peace and justice to the Three Countries.”
He added quietly, “But the white feather is red-stained. Your death will be in the cause of justice.”
“My death?” Shigeru could not imagine it; he had never felt more alive.
Matsuda laughed. “At your age we all think we will live forever. But each of us has only one death. We should make it count. Make sure when you die that it is the right time, that your death is important. We all hope our lives have meaning; for our deaths to be significant is a rarer blessing. Value your life: don’t cling to it, but don’t discard it trivially.”
“Do I have that choice?” Shigeru wondered aloud.
“The warrior must create that choice,” Matsuda replied. “Moment by moment he must be aware of the paths that lead to life or death—his own, his followers’, his family’s, his enemies’. He must decide with a clear mind and unclouded judgment which path each must take. To develop this clarity is one goal while you are here.” He paused for a moment as if to let his words sink in. When he spoke again, his voice had lightened. “Now we must get moving again, or we’ll be spending the night in the forest.”
Shigeru picked up the wooden swords and the bundles and slung them over his shoulders. His impatience and rebelliousness of the previous day had disappeared. He pondered Matsuda’s words as he followed the teacher up the steep mountain path. He would strive to follow them and choose his own death, strive always to be conscious of the right path—but may it be many years ahead, he prayed.