“The dragonfly soars above the earth,” Matsuda said, “yet its body becomes food for ants. All creatures are born; all must die.”
“You gave up the desires of the world to follow the teachings of the Enlightened One,” Shigeru said. “You have compassion for all living beings. The Holy One taught his disciples to harm nothing. Yet you are my teacher in the art of war. It’s not possible for me to follow you, even if I wanted to. I have duties to my family, my clan, my country. I cannot renounce that.”
“I would never expect you to. Your path is in this world. But it is possible to live in this world yet not be a slave to it. If I can teach you that, I’ll be happy.” Matsuda added, “Along with swordsmanship and the art of war, naturally, for to answer your question clearly: Yes, the Otori will have to fight the Tohan. Within the next five years is my guess. Either in the south or on the eastern borders.”
“Lord Kitano at Tsuwano has sent his sons to Inuyama,” Shigeru said. “It suggested disloyalty to me.”
“Noguchi also has been making friendly advances to the Iida family. These are the straws that show the direction of the wind. Both these men are highly pragmatic; Noguchi is a coward and an opportunist. They expect war and they do not expect the Otori to win.”
“They are traitors,” Shigeru said furiously, his former sense of patience completely destroyed. “I should be back in Hagi.”
“Your father is still the head of the clan; he must know how things stand. It’s up to him and his advisers to deal with the situation.”
“My father . . .” Shigeru began, then fell silent, not wanting to sound disloyal himself.
“It’s one of the lessons of adulthood,” Matsuda said. “To see our parents clearly and recognize their strengths and their weaknesses, yet still honor them as our parents.”
“My father has many weaknesses,” Shigeru said with pain. “If the Otori are defeated by the Tohan, it will be because of them.”
Matsuda said, “We hope the onset of war will be delayed long enough for you to take a greater part in the leadership of the clan. And we hope that you have escaped the same weaknesses,” he added dryly.
“You must already know what they are,” Shigeru replied, feeling the blood mount to his cheeks. “And they are many!”
“The usual Otori failings, no doubt. Overhasty temper, lack of patience, a tendency toward easy infatuation. These are minor defects that you will master.”
“I will make every effort to,” Shigeru promised.
11
The days fell into a regular pattern of meditation and exercise, like the recurring motifs in a woven cloth. In the middle of the day or after the evening meal, Matsuda often talked about the history and politics of the clan and the strategies of war. He questioned the young man about his previous teaching: Shigeru was expected to retain everything in his mind. Matsuda’s memory was astonishing, and Shigeru could feel his own becoming sharper as he absorbed all that the older man could tell him.
After two weeks of following his teacher’s movements daily and practicing on his own, Matsuda told him one morning to bring the poles to the training ground. Shigeru was amazed at how his muscles and coordination had improved. He had been considered a talented pupil in Hagi, but that boy had been clumsy and slow compared to what he had become. Now the pole became what the sword would be, an extension of his own arm and brain. It would move as fast as thought with all his strength behind the blow. And in its return it would be as flexible as his own muscles, as swiftly and easily manipulated as his own hand. Breathe in, breathe out. The emptiness of mind that he achieved in meditation he now entered into effortlessly. He did not think about whom he was in combat with; he forgot Matsuda was his teacher, was an illustrious warrior; he even put aside his overwhelming desire to outwit, outfight his opponent; he saw only the movements of the attack and his response in defense and counterattack.
IN THE LATE AFTERNOONS he explored the mountain paths, finding whatever wild food he could. Sometimes he thought he heard human movements or felt he was being watched, and once he came upon signs that someone had been digging up aconite, arum root, and bugloss. However, he saw no one in the forest, though every now and then a farmer or a village woman came from the hamlet with offerings of food. If they met, Matsuda would give them a blessing and urge them to drink from the spring, while Shigeru questioned them about their farms and crops, their weather predictions, their folktales and remedies. At first they were silenced by shyness, but as the weeks went by, they began to open up to him.
Matsuda teased him about it, saying he must have been a farmer in a former life.
“If we were only warriors, we would all starve,” Shigeru replied. “We should never forget who feeds us.”
“Already wiser than most warriors in Hagi,” Matsuda said, as if to himself.
“If there is to be war, I must be a warrior,” Shigeru said lightly. “But if peace prevails, I will be a farmer, and no one will go hungry in the entire Middle Country.”
The summer solstice came and then the days of the Great Festivals, but Matsuda gave no indication that they would return to the temple. A few days before the Festival of the Dead, two monks came from Terayama, bringing food, bags of rice and dried vegetables, a cask of pickles and one of salted fish. It seemed like a feast after the meager diet of the past weeks. They also brought news from Hagi of the good health of the Otori family and a letter from Takeshi.
“He asks if I have met any goblins,” Shigeru said, reading it eagerly. “He had a fall from Karasu, my black horse, and saw double for a day.” He felt the old anxiety threaten to rise and swallowed, willing it away. “I told him not to ride the black. He is barely broken and too strong for a child. I hope he is not hurt worse than he allows.”
They had brought no writing materials with them, so he could not write a reply, but the monks promised they would send messengers to Hagi to seek more news. They talked a little during the evening meal: events in the temple, the Abbot’s good health and spirits, the progress of the novices. The two visitors stayed the night and sat in silent meditation with Matsuda and Shigeru. The hut was too small for four, so Shigeru slept outside under the stars.
It was a sultry night and he slept lightly, his sleep broken by the hooting of owls, the croaking of frogs, whining mosquitoes; once a wolf howled in the distance, and just before dawn something padded past his head on soft paws; he opened his eyes to see a tanuki staring at him. When he moved, it slipped quickly under the hut.
He rose then and saw that the three men were awake—and must have been for some time, for they already sat in meditation. He joined them, drawing strength from the fading night and the growing daylight. He turned his thoughts to Takeshi and prayed his brother had recovered completely, though he wondered if any sort of prayer worked backward like that. Then he stilled his thoughts and concentrated on his breath.
When it was full daylight, Shigeru fetched water, blew gently on the embers of the fire and built it up, preparing the meal as he now did daily for Matsuda. With his plain hemp robe hitched into his belt, Shigeru looked no different from the monks, apart from his hair; he felt he could be one of them; the youngest, hence the servant. The visitors made little sign that they were astonished by the heir to the clan waiting humbly on them, though the younger one thanked him effusively and the older one shot one quick look at Matsuda, who smiled slightly in response. The two monks left immediately afterward, wasting no time, walking swiftly away down the path. It was already very hot, and thunder rolled in the distance where black clouds massed over the farthest ranges. The sky above was a deep purple-blue, the sun’s light bronze-tinged.
“Start your exercises now,” Matsuda said. “There will be storms before midday.”
He had thought himself tired, but the fatigue slipped away as he went through the familiar routine. Matsuda continued to meditate, but after about an hour had passed, he stood, hitched up his robe, and picked up the poles. Shigeru bowed to his teacher and took one of th
e poles, feeling the usual pleasure at its balanced weight and smoothness.
Thunder rolled again, closer this time. The air was charged with intensity, like lightning.
During the previous weeks, Matsuda’s attack had grown daily more aggressive. His control over the pole was so great Shigeru had no fear of being injured by him, but he had had enough slight blows and bruises to take each combat seriously. This day his teacher seemed even more ferocious. Twice the force of the onslaught drove Shigeru to the edge of the training ground. He felt the master was seeking something more from him, pushing him to his limits to get at some unawakened power. He could feel anger rising in him: a blow to the side of his neck smarted; the sun’s harsh light made his head ache and sweat was pouring from him, stinging his eyes.
The third bout was even more intense. Shigeru had thought till now that he trusted Matsuda not to hurt him, but suddenly the older man’s hostility seemed real. It shook his confidence as much as anything else. His trust in his teacher wavered and, once weakened, began to dissolve; previous tiny misgivings all joined together. He intends to kill me, Shigeru thought. He said he would go to Inuyama: He is in contact with the Iida. He will kill me here as if by accident and join Kitano and Noguchi in their treachery. The Otori will be overthrown, the Middle Country lost.
A fury rose in him such as he had never experienced before, so intense it wiped everything from his mind. And into the emptiness flowed the power he had not known he possessed until the moment when he realized that he was fighting for his life and everything he valued.
All reverence for Matsuda evaporated; any awe he might have felt for the older man disappeared. He attacked with single-mindedness. Matsuda parried the first stroke, but its force unbalanced him slightly. He turned it into a feint to regain his footing, but in that instant Shigeru circled so his teacher was on the downhill slope, the sun now in his eyes. He remembered the world’s power and saw how he could use it. He struck with all his strength and speed into the opening, hitting Matsuda on the side of the head with a crack as loud as thunder.
The old man grunted involuntarily and staggered. Shigeru dropped his pole, appalled at what he had done. “Master!”
Matsuda said, “I’m all right. Don’t worry.” Then his face went pale. Sweat stood out on his forehead. “I’d better sit down.”
Shigeru helped him to the veranda and lowered him down in the shade, fetching the quilts for him to lie on, bringing water to sponge the bruise, already swelling and black.
“Shouldn’t sleep,” Matsuda muttered. “Don’t let me go to sleep,” and promptly closed his eyes and started snoring.
Shigeru shook him. “Master, wake up! Don’t sleep!” But he could not rouse him.
He is going to die! I’ve killed him! His immediate thought was to get help. The monks had been gone for over an hour, but maybe if he ran . . . and shouted . . . they would hear him and return. They would know what to do. But should he leave Matsuda here alone? He had to decide at once, and to act seemed preferable to doing nothing. He turned the old man on his side, put a pile of clothes under his head, and covered him with a quilt. He filled a cup of water at the spring, wetted Matsuda’s lips, and left the cup near him.
Then he began to run down the mountain track, calling as he went, “Hey! Can anyone hear me? Come back! Come back!”
He had run blindly for about two miles before he realized it was useless. The monks had too long a start on him; he would never catch up with them. The sun shone with one last dazzling burst and then was swallowed up by the thunderclouds. Lightning flashed briefly, and afterward the world seemed to plunge into darkness. Thunder cracked overhead and almost immediately rain came pouring down.
Within moments he was soaked. Just as Matsuda had said, storms before midday. Shigeru now became even more worried about leaving the old man. He felt he must return to him. But as he turned to go back, he was no longer sure of where he was; the rain disoriented him, and it was several moments before he realized he had taken a wrong turn in his blind rush down the mountain. He tried to retrace his steps, but the track he had come down on was already running with water and with no sun to guide him, he could not be sure of the direction.
There was a tremendous crack ahead of him as lightning struck the top of a cedar. The tree lit up, crackling with fire, steaming as the rain doused the sparks. He halted for a moment, fearing the cedar might topple, but though split it did not fall. However, in the moment he stopped, he thought he saw through the rain a figure ahead, a man, sheltering beneath the overhang of a rock.
He called out, “Hey, help me, please. I’ve lost my way.”
The man turned his head in Shigeru’s direction. Their eyes met. The man vanished.
He hadn’t moved or run away. He had disappeared. One moment he was there; the next he was not.
I’ve seen a goblin, Shigeru thought, but at that moment he would take help even from one of hell’s demons. He ran on toward the rock, calling out as he went.
“Don’t go away! I need your help. My teacher is injured. I’ve lost my way and must get back to him.”
The rain fell in solid sheets from the lip of the rock; he stood for a moment in the shelter and wiped the water from his eyes. The noise of the storm drowned all other sounds, but he felt suddenly there was another person close to him. He reached out, and could not help crying out in shock as he touched living flesh and the flesh began to make itself seen, shimmering into being in the dim light.
It did not look like a goblin with staring eyes and a long nose, but it had to be something supernatural, some mountain spirit, or a restless ghost murdered in this place and unavenged. He saw a young man, perhaps seven or eight years older than himself, with a pale, mobile face and strange opaque eyes, which held both mockery and curiosity. Apart from the eyes, there was nothing exceptional about him: he wore ordinary clothes, a short jacket over a loincloth, his legs were bare, and a head cloth hid his hair; he did not seem to be armed, but Shigeru saw the right hand move closer to the chest and guessed there was a weapon hidden there.
He himself was completely unarmed in his sudden rush from the hut. But what weapons would be effective against this spirit of the mountain who could appear and disappear at will?
He forced himself to speak. “Whoever or whatever you are, please help me. My master is injured: I went to get help and am now lost. He is in the hut near the spring, where the shrine is.”
“Your master? Who is he?”
“Matsuda Shingen, from Terayama.”
“And who are you?”
“Just one of his novices. I beg you, show me the path.”
The man smiled slightly but made no response. He took a step backward and rain cascaded over him; he vanished again.
Shigeru fought back a cry of disappointment and stepped out into the rain, determined to retrace his steps and discover where he had gone wrong. However, a little way ahead of him he saw the dark figure reappear. It turned and beckoned to him.
“Follow me,” the man called.
They went straight up the slope along a narrow fox-track, occasionally dropping to all fours to clamber over rocks or through the undergrowth. The man kept well ahead, vanishing if Shigeru came too close but always reappearing again. It was like being led by a fox—and Shigeru wondered if he had indeed been enthralled by a fox-spirit and was being led into the spirit world. The pelting rain, the greenish light, the crack and roll of thunder, the silver blue streaks of lightning, all seemed to come from some other domain where the normal rules of life were broken and magic prevailed. His reality had been jolted, and it made him feel sick and dizzy, as if he had received a blow to the head. And what of Matsuda? What if he were already dead? He not only had injured his teacher; he had utterly failed to bring help to him.
They crossed a small ridge and began to descend, and suddenly Shigeru knew where he was. Not penetrating deeper and deeper into the spirit world but coming down toward the hut on a track he had often used before. He began to ru
n, not knowing if he passed the spirit-man, only thinking, with bursting chest, of Matsuda.