Heaven's Net Is Wide

8

Proving that Kitano’s fears about the onset of the plum rains were fabricated, the weather stayed fine and mild. Shigeru put aside his anger and unease to enjoy the pleasures of the journey. It took only three days to reach Yamagata, where he was received rapturously. He knew the town and its castle well, having often stayed there with his father. Every year in the autumn, the seat of government was moved from Hagi to Yamagata for three months, returning to winter in Hagi. Yamagata lay on the high road to Inuyama; it was as important for trade as it was for defense, and it was within easy reach of the most sacred place in the Middle Country-the temple at Terayama, where the worship of the Enlightened One took place alongside an ancient shrine where the older gods of the forest and mountain were honored. Here were the tombs of Shigeru’s ancestors: almost all of them buried here, the rare exceptions lying at the temple of Daishoin in Hagi.

The Otori loved Hagi for the beauty of its setting, for the islands that surrounded it, for its twin rivers; but they loved Yamagata for its closeness to Terayama and, more mundanely, for its inns and drinking places, its hot springs and beautiful women.

Not that Shigeru had any dealings with the women, though his eye was drawn to them constantly. Irie was somewhat ascetic by nature, believing in discipline and self-restraint, and Shigeru was influenced sufficiently by this and by his father’s disclosures to try to master his own desires.

They spent three weeks in the mountain town, during which time Shigeru met with the senior retainer, Nagai Tadayoshi, and the clan officials, and heard their reports on military and administrative matters. There had been one or two skirmishes on the eastern borders with Tohan warriors-nothing serious; the Tohan had been driven back with little loss of Otori lives, but these small straws might show the direction of the coming wind. And there were a number of people fleeing from the East, it was rumored, though it was hard to know how many, since they slipped across the border by mountain paths now that the snows had melted.

“There is talk of a religious sect,” Nagai Tadayoshi told Shigeru. “They call themselves the Hidden. They are extremely secretive and live alongside ordinary villagers with no one knowing the difference. It explains how they survive here: existing families that we know nothing about must take them in.”

“What kind of religion-one of the differing forms of worship of the Enlightened One?”

“Possibly. I have not been able to find out. But the Tohan seem to dislike them intensely and seek to eradicate them.”

“We should try to find out more about them,” Shigeru said. “They have no connection with the Tribe?”

“It does not seem so. There are very few Tribe families in Yamagata and the surrounding districts.”

How can you be so sure? Shigeru wondered but did not speak the thought aloud.

Still impressed by Eijiro’s ideas on farming, Shigeru asked Nagai to accompany him into the countryside to see for himself the methods used by the farmers, and their way of life.

“It is quite unnecessary.” Nagai was taken aback. “Lord Shigeru can be shown the records and the figures.”

“I want to see what the records cannot show me: I want to see living people,” he replied. Despite the usual excuses and delaying tactics, he found he was able to get his own way by stubborn insistence. He realized that in the end everyone had to defer to him. He had of course known this in theory, since he was the heir to the clan, but until this time he had been bound by the ties of obligation and respect to his teachers and elders: They had influenced and molded his character. Now as he approached adulthood, he became aware of the full extent of his power and how it might be wielded. The older men might resist him, might argue with him and delay him, but they had to submit to his wishes no matter what their opinion of them. The knowledge of this power was sometimes exhilarating but more often sobering. His decisions had to be the right ones, not for himself but for the clan. He was aware of his shortcomings in both wisdom and experience, but he trusted in his instincts and in the vision he had had of his fief as a farm.

“There is no need to arrange a formal procession,” Shigeru said when Nagai eventually gave in. He had had enough of ceremony. “I will ride with Irie, yourself, and a couple of guards.”

“Lord Otori.” Nagai bowed, his lips pressed tightly together.

Shigeru went out into the villages, saw the flooded rice fields being weeded, learned how the dikes were constructed and the water managed, climbed into airy lofts and heard the silkworms munching their short lives away; and finally overcame the reluctance of his companions and the shyness of the farmers and spoke to them, learning from their own mouths about their skills and customs, from their hands about their farming implements; heard the drums of the summer festivals held in local shrines high in the hills, as the rice god was celebrated with straw ropes and paper figures, rice wine and dancing; saw fireflies above clear rivers in the velvet dusk; realized the hardships and rewards of this life, its eternal cycles, its indestructibility. He put on traveling clothes, unmarked by the clan symbol, relishing the feeling of anonymity, but he could not remain unrecognized for long. People stopped work to look at him, and he was aware of their gaze, conscious that he was becoming a symbol to them, transcending his own self and his human limitations, turning into the embodiment of the Otori clan. He was there for three weeks only, but it was a visit that was never forgotten, forming the foundation of the love and reverence the people of Yamagata held for Otori Shigeru.

He also rode or more often walked through the town, noting its shops and small businesses, soybean processing and wine fermenting, swordsmiths, potters, lacquer artists, carpenters, mat makers, painters and draftsmen, peddlers and street sellers; he had map makers come to the castle to show him their charts of the town and he pored over them, memorizing each house, each shop and temple, resolving he would do the same in Hagi when he returned.

Nagai was an austere and meticulous man. The records of the Otori clan at Yamagata were scrupulously kept. Shigeru grasped how easy it was to find information among the scrolls, which were kept in paulownia and camphor-wood boxes, with rue leaves placed inside. They were stored in logical order by year, district, and family and were written clearly and legibly, even the oldest ones. It was reassuring to see the history of his people recorded in such detail. Realizing that the records interested Shigeru as much as the farmers and townspeople, Nagai softened toward him. By the end of his visit, the two had formed a close bond of respect and affection, and like Shigeru’s teachers in Hagi-Irie, Miyoshi, and Endo-Nagai was relieved that the son showed none of his father’s shortcomings of indecisiveness and introspection.

SHIGERU WOULD HAVE stayed longer-there was so much to learn-but the imminent arrival of the plum rains demanded his departure. However, Yamagata was close enough to the temple to allow frequent visits, he hoped, during the year he was to spend with Matsuda Shingen.

As they rode slowly past the rice fields, where dragonflies skimmed and hovered, and into the bamboo groves, his thoughts turned to the man who would be his teacher. Everyone spoke with awe of Matsuda, of his supreme skill with the sword, his unequaled knowledge of the art of war, his complete mastery of mind and body, and now his devoted service to the Enlightened One.

Like all his class, Shigeru had been raised in the teachings of the saint brought from the mainland centuries before but adapted somewhat to the philosophy of the warrior. Self-control, domination of the passions, awareness of the fleeting nature of existence and the insignificance of life and death were all instilled from childhood, though to the fifteen-year-old, life seemed not at all insignificant but something immeasurably rich and beautiful, to be enjoyed with all the senses, and his own death so remote as to be almost inconceivable. Yet he knew death could happen at any moment-a fall from a horse, an infected scratch, a sudden fever-as easily as on the battlefield and at this time more probably. He had no fear of his own death-the only death he still feared was Takeshi’s.

The saint, a young man like himself, a ruler with all the material blessings life can offer, had been moved by pity for men and women trapped in the never-ending cycle of birth, death, and suffering and had studied, traveled, and finally sat in meditation until he came to the Enlightenment that freed him and all those who followed him. Many hundreds of years later the warrior Matsuda Shingen had become one of the most devoted of his disciples, had given up the practice of war, and was now a simple monk, rising at midnight to pray and meditate, often fasting, developing skills of mind and body that most men did not even dream of.

So Shigeru had heard from his companions in Hagi, but what he remembered most clearly from his previous visits was the older man’s bright eyes and serene expression, filled with wisdom and humor.

Here, deep in the forest, cicadas droned incessantly. The horses’ necks turned dark with sweat as the climb grew steeper. The air beneath the huge trees was humid and still. By the time they reached the inn at the foot of the steps to the temple, it was almost midday. Here they dismounted and washed hands and feet, drank tea, and ate a little. Shigeru changed his clothes and put on more formal attire. It was almost unbearably sultry; the day had darkened and clouds were massing in the West. Irie was anxious about returning to Yamagata. Shigeru told him to leave at once.

Several of the men stayed at the inn with their horses. They would remain there for the entire year in case Shigeru needed them. The rest returned with Irie, first to Yamagata, then, when the weather allowed it, to Hagi. There was no time for long farewells-rain was already threatening. Two monks had come from the temple to greet Shigeru. He gave one final look at Irie and his men, one of them leading Karasu, as they rode back down the mountain path, the banners with the Otori heron floating above the last horse, and then followed the monks as they began to climb the steep stone steps. Servants trailed after him with baskets and boxes, his other clothes, presents for the temple, Eijiro’s writings, and scrolls from Yamagata.

The monks did not speak to him. He was alone with his thoughts, a mixture of anticipation at this new stage of his life and apprehension, knowing that the training and discipline would be immensely demanding; fearing it would be too hard, that he would fall short or fail, conscious-overconscious, maybe-of who he was; not wanting to disgrace his father and his own name. He had no intention of sharing these misgivings with anyone, but when he came through the temple gates where Matsuda was waiting for him in the first courtyard, he felt that the older man’s penetrating eyes could see through his chest and read the records of his heart.

“Welcome, Lord Shigeru. I consider it a great honor that your father has entrusted you to my care. I will take you to meet our Abbot and show you your room.”

As they stepped out of their sandals onto the boards of the cloister, Matsuda added, “You are to lead the life of a novice, apart from studying with me. Therefore you will sleep and eat with the monks and join them in meditation and prayer. You will have no special privileges while you are here. If you are to be trained in self-mastery, the more humble your spirit the better.”

Shigeru said nothing, not sure how this humbleness would sit with his awareness of his position as heir. He was not used to thinking of others as superior or even as his equals. His rank had been instilled into him in many subtle ways since he was born. He hoped he was not arrogant-he knew he was not humble.

They walked past the main hall, where lamps glowed around the golden figure of the Enlightened One. Incense filled the air, and Shigeru was conscious of many half-hidden monks in the dimness; he felt the power of their concentration, and something within him lifted in response, as if his spirit had been touched and wakened.

“Yes, your father judged it right. You are ready,” Matsuda murmured, and Shigeru felt his apprehension fall away.

The Abbot was a tiny, wizened man-Shigeru had never seen anyone so old. He must have been at least eighty. Men were considered adults at sixteen, women at fifteen; age twenty-five to thirty was the prime of life, forty already approaching old age. Few lived beyond sixty years. Matsuda must be close to fifty, the same age as his father-and next to the Abbot he looked like a young man.

The old man was supported by armrests, but he still sat erect, legs folded beneath him. Like Matsuda, he wore a plain monk’s robe, woven from hemp and dyed brown. His head was shaved. Round his neck was a string of ivory prayer beads, from which hung a silver amulet with a strange engraving on it, holding inside a prayer written in some distant temple on the mainland-in Tenjiku itself possibly. Shigeru bowed to the floor before him. The old man did not speak but exhaled deeply.

“Sit up,” Matsuda murmured. “The Lord Abbot wishes to see your face.”

Shigeru raised himself, his own eyes carefully cast down, while the other’s bright black eyes studied him. Still the old man did not speak.

Glancing up, Shigeru saw him nod twice. Then the eyes slowly closed.

Matsuda touched Shigeru on the shoulder and they both lowered their foreheads to the floor. A strange fragrance emanated from the old man, not the sour smell of age that might have been expected, but a sweet rich scent that hinted at everlasting life. Yet the old man seemed only a breath away from death.

Matsuda confirmed this as they left. “The Lord Abbot will depart from us shortly. He has been awaiting your arrival. He wanted to advise on your studies. Once that is done, he will be free to leave us.”

“Does he ever speak?” Shigeru asked.

“Very rarely now, but those of us who have served him for many years have an understanding with him.”

“I suppose Lord Matsuda will become Abbot in his place?”

“If the temple and the clan desire me to, I cannot refuse,” Matsuda replied. “But for now I am a humble monk, one among many, no different from any other, except that I have the honor to be your teacher.” He smiled radiantly when he said this. “I am looking forward to it! This is where you will sleep.”

The room was huge and empty, the thin mats that the monks slept on folded and put away in the closets behind sliding doors. On the floor lay a pile of clothes.

“Your own things will be stored away for you,” Matsuda said. Shigeru had dressed in his most formal clothes in honor of the Abbot and the temple. Now he took off the plum-colored silk garment, woven with a deeper pattern of purple, the Otori heron in silver on the back; it was carefully folded and put away, along with his other clothes. In its place he put on the simple brown robe like the monks’-the only difference between him and them now was that his hair was not cut. The material, clean but not new, was rough, unlike the silk he was used to; it chafed his skin and had an unusual smell.

There was a clap of thunder overhead, and a few moments later the sound of rain pouring in torrents onto the roofs and cascading from the eaves.