Heaven's Net Is Wide

39

The rains came to an end, and the heat of summer followed. Shigeru rose early and spent the days in the rice fields, watching the farmers protecting the crops from insects and birds. No one ever spoke of the society Kenji had mentioned-Loyalty to the Heron-yet he was aware of some deep understanding of his desire for anonymity. Beyond his own estate, he was never addressed by name. Outside Hagi, few knew him by sight, and if he was recognized, no one gave any indication of it.

Then the rice was harvested with sickles, the grain separated out with flails and sticks and dried on mats in the sun. Small children kept constant watch over it, setting up a cacophony with bells and gongs. In the vegetable fields, the water-powered deer-scarers beat out their erratic rhythm. The Festival of the Weaver Star was celebrated, and then the Festival of the Dead. Shigeru did not go to Terayama, as in the previous year, but instead attended the memorial at Daishoin, where so many of the Otori of his generation had their final resting place, and where Moe and his daughter were buried. Custom dictated that his uncles should also be present at this ceremony, and Shigeru greeted them with deference and humility, knowing that he must convince them of his new identity if he was to live. He did not speak much to them directly, but talked enthusiastically about the harvest in their hearing. A few days later his mother, who still had some contact with the deep interior, the women’s part of the residence, spoke to him, trying to conceal her displeasure.

“They are referring to you as ‘the farmer.’ Can you not at least maintain some dignity, some consciousness of who you are?”

He gave the frank smile that was becoming second nature to him.

“‘The farmer.’ It is a good name. It is what I am-hardly something to be ashamed of.”

Lady Otori wept in private and goaded him when she spoke to him. He said nothing to her of his true intentions; nor did he tell anyone else, though from time to time he would catch Ichiro regarding him curiously, and he wondered how much his astute old teacher suspected.

Takeshi did not hide the fact that Shigeru’s behavior puzzled and shamed him. The nickname of “the farmer” spread, and Takeshi hated it, frequently getting into fights over it-and over other perceived insults to Shigeru or himself. He was at the age when the turbulence of becoming a man increased his innate recklessness tenfold. He loved women, and while it was considered perfectly natural for young men of his age to visit the pleasure houses, Takeshi showed none of Shigeru’s reticence or self-control. On the contrary, people began to whisper that he would become as lecherous as his uncle Masahiro.

Chiyo brought these rumors to Shigeru’s notice, and he spoke to Takeshi severely about it, which led to angry scenes that surprised and distressed him. He had thought his brother would always be obedient to him and heedful of his advice. He tried to remind Takeshi obliquely of his resolve for revenge, but he had no plans to spell out, and Takeshi was impatient and dismissive. Shigeru realized the extent to which grief, humiliation, and loss of status had undermined Takeshi’s loyalty and loosened the bond between them. Not that the bond was any weaker on Shigeru’s side. His love and concern for his brother were stronger than ever. Yet he could not allow understanding Takeshi’s situation to lead to indulging him. Shigeru was strong-willed, Takeshi stubborn; the confrontations between them increased.

In the ninth month, violent rain and winds lashed the country as the first typhoons swept up the coast from the south, but when the storms abated, autumn had come with clear blue skies and cool crisp air. The weather was an invitation to travel; Shigeru realized he was longing to escape the difficult atmosphere of the house, the confinement of the city, the stress of continually pretending to be what he was not. He felt he and Takeshi needed to be apart for a while but feared leaving the younger boy with only Ichiro to supervise him.

Takeshi would make his coming of age in the new year, yet in Shigeru’s eyes he was immature and still had much to learn. Shigeru increased the time they spent together, dedicating long hours in the study to classical learning and war strategy and on the riverbank to sword training.

One warm evening, when he had arranged to meet his brother, Takeshi kept him waiting. Several young men had turned up to watch the training sessions, among them Miyoshi Kahei. Shigeru practiced for a while with Kahei, noting the young man’s skill and strength, his unease at Takeshi’s lateness increasing. When at last Takeshi arrived, he did not apologize; he watched the final bout with Kahei without expression, and when it was finished, made no move to take the pole from him.

“Takeshi,” Shigeru said. “Do the warm-up exercises, and then we will spar for a while.”

“I think you have taught me all you can,” Takeshi said without moving. “I have promised to meet someone shortly.”

“You can still learn something from me, I expect,” Shigeru replied mildly. “And your first promise was to me, your first obligation to your training.”

“What am I training for, since we do not fight?” Takeshi exclaimed. “Why don’t you teach farmers’ sons how to use the hoe?”

Shigeru was aware of Kahei trying to control his reaction, and of the other young men: their shock, followed by their alert interest in how Shigeru would respond. His own immediate reaction was fury that Takeshi should challenge him in public: all the anxieties and irritations that his brother had caused him for months came boiling to the surface. He seized the pole from Kahei and thrust it toward Takeshi. “Take it and fight, or I’ll knock you out.”

Takeshi was barely ready before Shigeru’s pole caught him on the right shoulder. Shigeru hit him harder than he had ever done before, unable to suppress the thought: That’ll teach him a lesson. His brother responded with equal rage and came back at him ferociously, surprising Shigeru with the intensity of the attack. He sidestepped and parried the thrusts but each blow came more swiftly and powerfully than the last, and every response he made only increased Takeshi’s fury.

He did not believe his brother was seriously trying to harm him until one blow got past his guard; he ducked in time but knew that Takeshi had been aiming with all his power at his temple, which the pole would have cracked like a piece of pottery. His own rage ignited in response: his next thrust caught Takeshi hard in the breastbone, winding him; as he bent forward, choking for air, Shigeru’s pole returned to catch him in the side of the neck. Takeshi fell to his knees; the pole dropped from his hands.

“I concede,” he said, his voice muffled by rage.

“When you can get the better of me, then you may choose whether to continue your training or not,” Shigeru replied. “Until that time, you obey me.” But he was thinking, We cannot go on like this; we will end up killing each other.

Kahei offered to help Takeshi home. The brothers did not speak for several days; their mother was distraught at Takeshi’s bruises and displeased with Shigeru for causing them. Takeshi had improved in character while he had lived apart from his mother, but now that they were both in the same house, her indulgence of the younger son and her disapproval of the elder undermined Shigeru’s authority and encouraged Takeshi’s resentment.

Shigeru could see no solution other than to continue to insist on imposing his will, but he knew his disguise as the farmer had lost him the respect of his mother and his brother.

A few days after the fight that nearly got out of hand, Kahei’s father Miyoshi Satoru came to visit, ostensibly to ask if Ichiro might condescend to take Kahei and Gemba as pupils. This led indirectly and with great delicacy to the suggestion that Takeshi might like to spend more time with Satoru’s sons, might even like to reside with them for a few weeks.

Shigeru was torn between gratitude and a fear that Satoru thought he was failing in his efforts to raise his brother, that Takeshi was out of control and everyone in Hagi knew it. Satoru deftly managed to give the impression that his older son, Kahei, would benefit greatly both from Ichiro’s teaching and from the association with Takeshi. This made it possible for Shigeru to agree without any loss of face. Nevertheless, he was reluctant to pass on his personal problems to another family; he thanked Lord Miyoshi for the offer and promised to consider it and discuss it with his mother and Ichiro.

He was sitting in Ichiro’s room that night, talking with the old man when his glance fell on what seemed to be a new addition to the boxes of scrolls that lined the walls. Somewhat to his surprise, Ichiro was all in favor of Lord Miyoshi’s suggestion; his mother had argued against it, but more out of habit than through any serious objection.

“What is in this box?” Shigeru inquired.

“It was delivered a few days ago. I forgot to tell you. There’s a letter inside, on the top. It’s from Otori Eijiro’s widow. The estate has been ceded to Tsuwano. She and her daughters are returning to the West. These are the last writings of her husband before he died: she wanted you to have them.”

“Well, I’ll look through them.” It seemed a good distraction from the decision he had to make about Takeshi, though it brought its own griefs as he remembered Eijiro’s family and the happiness of their lives. He found himself recalling the week he had spent there and the deep impression it had made on him. It is the influence of the Maruyama, Eijiro had said.

Eijiro’s wife was from the Sugita family. Lady Maruyama’s companion, Sachie, was her sister. He was thinking about Maruyama Naomi as he took out the letter and unrolled the scroll. The widow’s handwriting was strong and bold, the language restrained; he felt he could see her courage and her grief in both. Laying the letter to one side, he took out the next scroll. When he opened it, a smaller piece of paper was enclosed within it. The handwriting was different, neither Eijiro’s nor his wife’s-more fluid and graceful-and the piece was not a letter; nor was it records of farming.

It was the night of the full moon of the ninth month, and the screens were all wide open, revealing the garden bathed in light. The air was still, all the leaves motionless, the shadows dark and long. In the closest shrub, an orb spider was weaving a web: gold and silver glinted in the moonlight together. He read:

Was it a message to him, or had it been included in the papers by mistake? Lady Maruyama had said she would write to him by this very means. She did not write of alliances or intrigues; she did not even address him by name. There was nothing that might link them under any suspicious scrutiny; she wrote of grief for a lost child, yet the image she used pierced him as if he had received a sudden cut to the flesh of his heart. She must have had news of his loss; she had suffered in the same way; he had lost his wife and daughter; she, her husband and son. She might have written differently, with words of commiseration, pledges of support, but these brief lines made him believe more than anything that he could trust her and that she would be part of the pattern of his future. He thought of the game of Go: a player might seem to be completely surrounded, powerless and defeated, but an unexpected move could break the tightening ring and reverse the situation. Such a move had suddenly come to him: for the first time since the battle, his patient persistence, dogged and gray, was colored by the faintest tinge of hope.

He folded the poem and tucked it inside the breast of his robe, then turned his attention to Eijiro’s last writings, marveling at how the energetic, intelligent voice still spoke out to him. Eijiro had been experimenting with different strains of sesame seed, used for oil for cooking and lighting. Shigeru soon became absorbed in the subject and thought he might try some of these in his own fields: he would write to Eijiro’s widow to ensure that seeds were retained and sent to him before she left for the West and he would set aside some land to sow a crop in the spring, making sure the aspect, irrigation, and fertilizing followed Eijiro’s advice. Every time I light a lamp with the oil, I’ll think of him-he could have no more fitting memorial.

The following day Takeshi came to him and apologized.

“Kahei told me I should,” he said awkwardly. “He explained to me how much I was in the wrong.”

“He is a good friend to you,” Shigeru replied, and told his brother about Kahei’s father’s suggestion. “Let’s walk outside for a while.” Once they were in the garden, beyond earshot of anyone, Shigeru explained a little of his continued pretence, repeated his intentions and the need to keep them secret; Takeshi promised to be patient. They agreed Takeshi should live with the Miyoshi family for a while, and the young man seemed to welcome it as a new challenge.

“I know you think I am running wild,” he said quietly to Shigeru. “Some of it is real but like you I also play a role that is not my true self. I can’t pretend I don’t enjoy a lot of it, though! It must be more fun than being a farmer!”

Later that afternoon Shigeru was walking through the fields, thinking partly of the sesame crop and partly with some relief of Takeshi, when a man stepped out from the shade of a small group of peach trees and spoke his name.

He recognized the voice at once-his retainer, the warrior Harada-and turned toward him with joy, for he had not seen him since before the battle and had believed him to be dead. Yet the man who dropped to his knees before him was almost unrecognizable. His head and face were covered in a scarf of some deep yellow-brown material, and he wore the short jerkin of a laborer. His legs and feet were bare. Shigeru momentarily thought he had been mistaken, but the man raised his head and spoke without getting up. “Lord Otori. It is I, Harada.”

“I had heard nothing of you and assumed you were dead,” Shigeru exclaimed. “It’s a great joy to see you, but you are so changed I hardly knew you.”

“Indeed my whole life has changed.” Harada spoke quietly and humbly, like a supplicant or a beggar. “I am glad to find you alive. I was afraid you would have had to give in to the pressure to take your own life.”

“Many people think I should have joined the dead,” Shigeru said. “But I have my reasons for remaining with the living. You must come to my house. We’ll eat together, and I’ll tell you them. Where have you been all this time, and why, may I ask, the change in your appearance and dress?”

He could see now that Harada carried no sword, nor, apparently, any other weapon.

“It is better that I don’t come to your house. I don’t want it to be known that I am in Hagi. Indeed, I can be of greater service to you if I remain unrecognized. Is there somewhere we can talk?” He dropped his voice further. “I have a message for you.”

“There is a small shrine at the top of the valley. It’s deserted except during days of festival. I am walking that way.”

“I will meet you there.” Harada lowered his head to the ground, remaining there while Shigeru walked on.

Shigeru was both pleased and disturbed by the meeting, delighted that Harada was still alive, puzzled by his strange appearance and his lack of weapons. He did not go directly to the shrine but continued his careful inspection of the land, taking the time to speak to the farmers, who at that time of year were chopping the stubble and bean straw for fodder and collecting fallen leaves from the oak coppices to use as compost. Sesame needed a warm southerly aspect: in the rugged country south of the city such fields were scarce and already used for beans and vegetables. The farmers grew enough of these for their own needs, but sesame would be a product they could supply to merchants in the city or directly to warriors’ households. It would give them income, access to coins, and increased power over their lives.

Eijiro had written, as if in a direct message, Whenever sesame has been introduced, I have seen an improvement in the living conditions of the villagers and an increase in their well-being, including a greater interest in education. Several villages have even been inspired to have their young men taught to read at schools established in the temples.

A place like this might become a school, Shigeru thought as he approached the shrine. It was almost empty, apart from one young man of about fourteen years, the son of the priest from the nearest village, who kept guard. The villagers stored various farming implements there, hoes, staves, and axes, as well as firewood, stacked neatly against the southern wall to dry out before winter. The boy was sitting on the faded wooden veranda, eating from a bowl. Behind him a young girl, obviously his sister, was preparing tea on the hearth. Shigeru could imagine her walking through the forest from her home to bring her older brother his supper.

He had spoken to the boy before and now said, after greeting him, “Someone is coming here to meet me. I will wait inside.”

“My sister will bring tea,” the boy replied, ducking his head but not making any other obeisance, as if he knew of Shigeru’s desire for informality and anonymity. Ever since Kenji’s visits during the plum rains, Shigeru had noticed among the people he met in field and forest similar tiny indications of Loyalty to the Heron.

He removed his sandals and stepped into the darkened interior. The floor had been recently swept, but the air smelled musty. The shrine felt empty, as though the god slept elsewhere and returned only when awakened by the music of the festival.

He found himself wondering about the existence of the gods. Could they really be awakened or swayed by the chanting and prayers of men? This part of the forest, with its small grove, had a feeling of peace and tranquillity that was almost numinous. Did that mean it was truly a place where a god dwelled?

His musings were interrupted by the boy’s voice, followed by Harada’s. After a few moments the girl came into the shrine, carrying a tray with two wooden cups.

“Your visitor is here, sir.” She set the tray on the floor and, when Harada came in and knelt, placed a cup before him and one in front of Shigeru. Harada unwound the head covering, revealing a terrible scar that covered one side of his face. He had lost the eye, and the whole cheek seemed to have been cut away. The girl flinched at the sight of him and turned her eyes away.

“Please call me if you need more tea,” she whispered and left them.

Harada drained the cup at a gulp, causing Shigeru to wonder if he had eaten or drunk anything that day, and then reached inside his jerkin and brought out a small flat package.

“I am to give Lord Otori this to prove my message is genuine.”

Shigeru took it. The wrapping was of a silk as fine as gossamer, faded gray, very old. A faint smell of incense clung to it. He untied it and took from inside a small folded piece of paper. Inside this was a dried fern shoot, perfect in every detail yet, like the silk, faded in color.

“You have been in Maruyama?” he said quietly.

Harada said, “The message is that there is much the two parties need to discuss in person and in secret. The eastern part of the other domain needs inspection. The other person involved will be just across the border.”

He named a mountain shrine, Seisenji, and spoke of the pilgrimage that the “other person” intended to make while in the district.

“At the next full moon,” he added. “What reply should I take back?”

“I will be there,” Shigeru said. He was about to ask more: why Harada had gone to Maruyama after the battle, how he had survived the injury, when there was a disturbance outside. The girl screamed loudly and angrily, the boy was shouting; there was a rush and tramp of feet on the boards and three armed men burst into the temple.

But for the dimness of the light, Shigeru would have had no chance, but in the second it took for them to adjust their eyes and recognize him, he was on his feet and Jato was in his hand.

He did not wait to inquire what their purpose was-he had no doubt they had come expressly to kill him; they each had long swords, drawn and ready. Their faces were hidden except for their eyes, and their garments were unmarked. He was outnumbered-Harada, he knew, was unarmed-and speed was his only advantage. To kill the first two was almost like a reflex. The blade moved of its own volition in its snakelike way, in two jabbing strokes: the downward to the left that cut the first man deep in side and belly, the upward to the right that whipped back across the second’s throat. The third assailant was a step behind them and could see better. His blade came whistling down at Shigeru’s neck, but Shigeru had raised Jato in front of his face and was able to parry the blow and force the blade away.

His adversary was fast, strong, and cunning-a fighter of great ability, possibly the most skillful Shigeru had ever encountered apart from Matsuda Shingen. In brief moments between the complete concentration of the fight, he wondered why Harada remained apart from it. This was no ordinary challenge but an unprovoked surprise attack. There was no honor involved. As he felt himself begin to tire, he wondered if Harada had in fact betrayed him, had lured him to this place precisely for such an attack. But the fern, no one knew of that-had she betrayed him? The thought filled him with such rage and despair that it gave him supernatural power. He drove at his opponent with fury, forcing the man to retreat a few steps onto the veranda. Here the boy, with great resourcefulness, thrust a pole between his legs and tripped him up, while the girl threw the teakettle full in his face.

Shigeru finished him off, Jato taking his head. He was astonished by the intervention of the pair-normally villagers took no part in warriors’ battles, large or small. He would have expected these two to run away and hide. The boy was trembling, perhaps partly at his own temerity, but he said to his sister, “Go and tell Father,” and then, “Are you hurt, Lord Ot-” He broke off. “Sir, I mean!”

“No. I thank you.” He was breathing hard, still in the grip of the shock and intensity of the sudden attack. “Help me carry the bodies outside. And bring water. We will wash the blood before it stains the floor.”

“How did they dare!” the boy exclaimed. “To attack you within the shrine! Truly the god punished them!”

“With your help,” Shigeru added.

“It was wrong of me! I should not have interfered. But I was so angry.”

With Harada’s help, they dragged the bodies beyond the shrine precinct, and the boy brought water from the spring and sluiced the floor. The dead men stared with sightless eyes while their blood turned the clear water pink.

“Who were they?” Shigeru said to Harada.

“Lord Otori; I have no idea. This had nothing to do with me, I swear it.”

“Then why did you bring me to this place? And leave me to fight them alone?”

“You suggested the meeting place,” Harada said hurriedly. “I could not have known-”

“You had time to inform your accomplices.”

“I did not! I would never betray you. You know who sent me. Sh-they are your ally. They have already proved that.”

“Yet you stood aside and did nothing.”

“This is what I wished to explain to Lord Otori. There is this matter I have to speak to you about.” Harada glanced around-the sound of scrubbing came from the shrine hall where the boy was fully occupied. The girl had not yet returned with her father. Harada said swiftly, “I have to ask you to release me from your service.”

“You seem to have released yourself already!” Shigeru accused him. “No arms, no fighting spirit. What has happened to you?”

“I have taken a vow never to kill again,” Harada replied quietly. “That is why I ask you to release me. I can no longer serve you as a warrior should.”

“So you have become one of the Hidden,” Shigeru said. He recalled how this thought had occurred to him months ago, before the battle: he had wondered then what effect it would have on the allegiance of a warrior like Harada.

“I was wounded at Yaegahara,” Harada said, touching his empty eyesocket. “When I lay near death, I had a vision. A being called to me out of a white light and told me I was to live and to serve only him. I felt God had spoken to me. It seemed a miracle that I was not discovered and killed by the Tohan, a miracle that I recovered-proof of the truth of the vision. I made my way to Maruyama and found Nesutoro and Mari. They taught me about the Secret God and gave me rebirth in their custom through water. I took the name Tomasu, after the man I carried on my back. Forgive me, Lord Otori. I cannot serve both the Secret One and you. I will never kill again; nor am I permitted to kill myself. I will understand if you feel it necessary to take my life, and I pray that the Secret One will forgive you.”

Shigeru listened to this speech with mounting consternation. Harada was obviously completely sincere: in the past he had believed the man to be dogged in his devotion. Out of all the men he had known, Harada had a single-mindedness and simplicity about him: he was not given to fanciful imaginings; only the deepest conviction could lead him to take this extraordinary step and ask to be released from his allegiance. Only such a conviction, verging on madness, could make him stand by passively while his liege lord, the head of his clan, was attacked and nearly murdered.

His feelings also included embarrassment and an obscure sense of shame. His own warrior had failed him, while two peasant children had come to his aid. Truly his world had been turned upside down! And Harada’s world as well. But how could the man bear to live under such humiliation? It would surely be doing him a favor to release him into death, where he could commune with white lights and secret gods as much as he liked.

Harada seemed to read his thoughts and extended his neck. His eyes were closed; he said a few words quietly, and Shigeru recalled hearing them before, spoken by Nesutoro at the time of death of his wife and children and friends-the prayers the Hidden speak at the moment of their passing. He remembered his insight that the pruned bush grows more vigorously. Despite Iida’s fiercest attempts to eradicate them, the Hidden still spread; their numbers increased. He had thought it an obscure belief of the downtrodden, the lowest levels of society: but it had emerged in one of his own warriors.

His hand had been on Jato’s hilt, and he had been about to wield it. But now he let his hand drop to his side.

“I ask one final service of you,” he said. “Take my reply back. Once that is done, I release you from all obligations to me. You are no longer part of the Otori clan.”

The words struck him as appalling. He had never said them to anyone in his life. Harada had made himself masterless, a man of the waves, as it was said, by his own choice.

“There will be other ways I can serve you,” Harada murmured.

“Go now,” Shigeru ordered him, “before anyone else knows you came. Farewell.”

Harada got to his feet, muttering words of thanks, and walked swiftly away. For a while silence returned to the shrine, apart from the splash of water and the hollow echo of the bucket, the wind in the oaks, and the rustle as leaves fell. A thrush sang loudly. The air was growing cold, almost as if there would be a frost.

In the distance, Shigeru could hear people approaching. The young girl came running up the hill, followed by her father and most of the men of the village. They carried sticks, staves, and mattocks, and their faces were set in anger.

“These men came to the village earlier,” the priest said. “They asked for Lord Otori. We told them nothing, except to look for him in Hagi. But they must have hidden in the forest and followed you here.”

“Who would dare to do such a thing!” one of the younger men exclaimed.

“We know who would dare!” another replied, raising his sickle. “We should go to Hagi ourselves and protest.”

Shigeru did not recognize the dead men. They wore no crests on their clothes, and when the bodies were stripped, they had no tattoos or other marks save the scars of old wounds. Kenji’s warning came back vividly to him.

“Could they have been bandits?” he asked the priest. If bands of masterless men were operating openly so close to Hagi, they would have to be dealt with.

“I suppose it’s possible,” the man replied. “Many warriors were left without lords or land after Yaegahara. But we have not been attacked; nor have we heard of any such bands in these mountains. I am afraid you were their chosen target,” he added. “We will show those in Hagi that such actions will not be tolerated in the Middle Country.”

The men around him shouted their agreement and seemed set to march to Hagi at once, giving Shigeru even more cause for astonishment. It was surely a result of the upheaval of Yaegahara, and one that no one had foreseen: instead of being cowed by the defeat, the remaining Otori farmers were defiant; they would take up arms themselves rather than be handed over passively to the Tohan.

He dissuaded them from taking any action. Instructing them to arrange for the burial of the dead, he returned home. By the time he reached the house, night had fallen; the moon was one night past full. The air was drier and much colder than the previous night, and the moonlight was no longer golden but pale and ghostly, the shadows suggesting the darkness that lay behind the world of appearances. Out of the day’s events, the assassination attempt seemed the least astonishing. He had not even paid attention to the bloodstains on his clothes until Chiyo exclaimed in horror when she came to the door to welcome him, a lamp in her hand.

The news spread at once through the household, and the next day, despite Shigeru’s orders for secrecy, had become widely known throughout Hagi. Rumors proliferated, adding to the unrest of the city. Shigeru’s uncles were forced to deny publicly any involvement in the assassination plan and to receive Shigeru openly and with respect in order to allay the unrest. Nevertheless, disturbances continued throughout the autumn. As a result, his own position became a little less dangerous, and less restricted: permission to travel freely was granted. He still maintained his disguise, however, relishing the freedom and anonymity it gave him.

He had no way of knowing who had been behind the attempt, but given Kenji’s warnings, he had to assume it was Iida. Kenji, he thought, might have confirmed this, but the Fox did not reappear as he had in the sixth month, and though Shigeru thought of writing to him at Yamagata, in the end he did not. It concerned him that he was possibly spied on most of the time, and he became more watchful and secretive himself, but he was reassured also by the fact that the men had waylaid him on his own estate-an obvious place for him to be. They might have ambushed him far more successfully on the lonely mountain paths to Terayama, had they known his every movement. And he was heartened by the support of the farmers, by the realization of the hidden loyalty to himself that lay just below the surface like a vein of coal, ready to burn and forge steel.

He announced his intentions of visiting Eijiro’s estate to bid farewell to his widow and made arrangements for Takeshi to move to Lord Miyoshi’s residence while he was away. If all went well, Takeshi might stay there for the winter.

When the moon returned, he set out for Misumi. Mori Yusuke had not returned from his journey, but before he left, he had entrusted his remaining horses to Shigeru. Shigeru took the oldest colt, which had recently been broken in; he named it Kyu. The horse was lively, full of youth and energy. It was impossible to ride it and feel depressed. Truly, I am not made for despair, Shigeru realized, grateful for the upbringing that had made him so resilient. Even the week he spent at Eijiro’s, though there was grief enough in the deaths of father and sons and the loss of the estate, did not plunge him back into the black mood of the days after Moe’s death. In the well-ordered fields, still maintained despite Eijiro’s passing, he saw a lasting tribute to the man’s foresight and, in the courage of his wife and daughters, testimony to the value of their upbringing.

It will not all be lost forever, he promised silently. I will restore it.

He thought about it constantly, and pieces of strategy began to assemble themselves in the corners of his mind. One of the most important pieces, he knew, would be alliance with the West, with the Arai and the Maruyama. The attempt on his own life had also given him ideas. Iida had attempted to strike at him in the heart of his own country. Could he not strike back in a similar way? Could he bring himself to resort to assassination? Would the Tribe ever work for him as Kenji had once suggested they would? Could he ever afford them?

A few days before the full moon, he left the horse at Misumi and went on foot into the mountains, letting it be known that he was going to look at the high country forests and that he would spend some time in retreat, praying for the souls of the dead. No one seemed to question this. His reputation was already established: he was interested in farming, he was more than usually devout, and he set great store by the proper respect paid to the dead.

The western border of the Middle Country ran along a narrow valley between two steep mountain ranges. Farther south, the border was guarded: local lords demanded taxes and tariff fees on goods and merchandise, and spies kept a close watch on travelers. Shigeru had written authority from his clan to travel where he pleased, but he did not want his movements known, and planned to get across the border in the wild mountainous country at the head of the river that flowed all the way north to Hagi.

He had some knowledge of the district on the lower eastern slopes from his previous visits to Eijiro, when they had ridden into the mountains and Eijiro had shown him the different trees grown for timber-cedar and pine, zelkova, paulownia and cypress. But once he was above the level of the forest, following narrow tracks over stony crags, he was in unknown country, finding his way by the sun during the day and by the stars at night. The weather remained fine, day after day of clear autumn skies as the leaves changed color, dyeing the forests red, the stain spreading perceptibly every day from the summit of the ranges downward.

He had brought food with him and also ate what the land provided-chestnuts, cobs, and mulberries. Some nights, early on, he found shelter in an isolated farmhouse. But in the high mountain there were no dwellings, and it was too cold to sleep outside so he walked all night as the moon waxed fuller.

He descended the first range and crossed the river. The area seemed deserted: no sign of any habitation, no smell of smoke. The river here was fast and shallow, hardly more than a stream, babbling to itself as it leaped over boulders. He slept a little in the middle of the day, warmed by the sun, but by nightfall the weather showed signs of changing. The wind swung round to the northwest; clouds banked up on the horizon. He came through a pass and stood on the highest rock to look toward the north, all the way to the coast. The sea was a dull violet smudge on the horizon beneath the solid gray sky. He knew he would be looking at Oshima, the island volcano, but he could not make out its shape. To his left, the range fell more gently, becoming the fertile land of the West, warmed by the coastal “black current,” protected by its mountains. Far away to the southwest lay the city and castle of Maruyama. Harada had told him the shrine she was visiting was less than a day’s walk from the pass. He scanned the forest below; in the far distance smoke hung in the valley, but otherwise, there was no sign of habitation, no curve of roof emerging from the deep green. On this side of the range, the autumn was slower to place its mark on the trees: only a few maples on the highest slopes had started to turn.

Just before dusk he smelled smoke and another scent that brought a rush of water into his mouth and made his stomach growl; he followed both smells warily and came upon a small hut made from rough-hewn branches and bark.

Two men were roasting game birds on a fire, the flames bright in the fading light. Shigeru greeted them, startling them; their hands went to their knives, and for a moment it seemed he would have to fight them. Guilt made them touchy and suspicious, but when they saw Jato, they were more inclined to placate the solitary warrior.

He asked them if they knew the temple, Seisenji, and they gave him directions.

“But surely you won’t walk through the night?” the older man said.

“I’m afraid the weather is changing,” Shigeru said.

“You’re right! It’ll rain tomorrow. Probably after midday.” He glanced at the younger man. They could be father and son, Shigeru thought. “Stay here tonight. You can share our catch. We’ve been lucky this week.”

They had many birds-quail, pigeons, and pheasants-hanging by the neck on cords from the rafters of the hut. The quail they supplied to a traveler who transported them to a merchant in Kibi. The rest they dried and salted to feed their families. They were reluctant to reveal too much about their hunting, and he gathered that it was not exactly allowed, but the local lord overlooked it when it suited him.

The pigeon’s flesh was dark and strong-flavored. While sucking the bones, he asked the men if they had heard of the Battle of Yaegahara. They shook their heads: they lived in their isolated village or on the mountain, where little news penetrated from the outside world.

He slept lightly, not quite trusting them. It was a cold night, and the younger man got up several times to put more wood on the fire. Shigeru woke each time and lay for a while thinking about this chance meeting and how his life must be from now on, needing help and support as all men do, yet never able to trust anyone; relying on his own skill and watchfulness to discern threat and defend himself against it, but avoiding living in constant fear and suspicion, which would destroy him more slowly than the sword but as effectively.

They rose in the gray dawn, the men keen to return home before the rain began. They hung the strings of birds around their necks and waists, wrapped their loincloths and leggings over them, and covered their upper bodies with loose cloaks.

“Keeps you warm!” The younger man laughed, and pretended to shiver. “Feels like my wife’s fingers on my balls!”

Shigeru could imagine the caress of the soft down against the skin.

They walked together for several hours until the track forked at the head of two narrow valleys. Here they parted, the hunters going north, Shigeru south.

He thanked them and wished them well; they responded cheerfully and briefly, hardly breaking their stride, not bowing or using deferential language. They did not seem in the least curious about him. He was glad they had no interest in the world beyond, and that they did not care who he was.

He had not gone far down the track before the rain started, at first a light drizzle, just enough to make the path slippery, then, as the wind picked up, heavier and drenching. The wide conical hat protected his head and shoulders, but his legs were soaked, his sandals muddied and falling apart. He tried to quicken his pace, anxious to reach Seisenji before nightfall, but the track became more treacherous-in places water ran down it like a river-and he began to fear the deluge would force him to spend the night in the forest. He started to question what he was doing as the rain dripped from his hat and his feet lost all feeling. What did he expect from the meeting-if indeed they ever met? Why was he making this journey, unpleasant and dangerous as it was? Would she come at all? Would she come only to betray him?

He remembered vividly the moment when he had longed to slide his hands under her hair and feel the shape of her head, but he sternly tried to put this from him. She had rebuked him for seeing her only as a woman, for not taking her seriously as a ruler: he would not make that mistake again. If she were there at all… Anyway, he wanted no more involvement with women, dreading the pain and disappointment that passion dealt out-but her hair!

It was almost dark when the mountain path, now resembling a waterfall more than anything else, dropped steeply down to join a wider, more level road that led up a slight slope. At the top of the slope, almost hidden by the driving rain and the dark cedars, was a small building with curved roof and deep eaves. Four horses, one a pretty mare, backs to the wind, were tethered beneath a barely adequate shelter roofed with straw that shook in the gusts of wind, shedding stalks and chaff like huge raindrops.

He stopped at the steps and removed his sandals and hat, sodden as they were. Despite the rain, the doors were all open. He stepped up onto the veranda and looked in.

The rain streamed from the eaves and splashed up from the ground, enclosing the building like a living curtain. Lamps were lit inside, but the main room of the temple was empty, the floor bare boards. It seemed hardly used: a wooden statue of the Enlightened One sat on a small platform; in front of him vases held fresh flowers, the yellow-flowered silver leaf and branches of red-berried sacred bamboo. There were few other decorations or artifacts, only, below the rafters, votive pictures of oxen and horses.

He called softly and heard her voice speak to her companion Sachie, heard the woman get to her feet and approach the doorway. She turned and whispered back into the interior room.

“It is he.”

He made a sign to Sachie, fearing she would speak his name but she said simply, “Come in. We are expecting you,” and bobbed her head. He remembered her as an elegant and refined woman of high rank, but now she looked younger and less polished, and the clothes she wore were plain, cut like a man’s. The interior room was matted, and he hesitated on the threshold, not wanting to sit down in his wet, muddied clothes.

Lady Maruyama sat by a small lamp, but it was too dark inside to see her face. She stood and approached him. She, also, was in men’s clothes, made from dark cloth, her hair tied back with cords. In contrast with Sachie, her garments made her look older, taller, in every way stronger, but they could not dispel the mystery of her long hair or the new spareness that grief had brought to her face, revealing the beauty of the bones beneath the white skin. Her look was frank; her gaze direct and open.

“I am so glad to see you. Thank you for coming all this way. You must be tired. And you are wet through. Sachie, can we provide dry clothes?”

“I will ask the groom,” the woman replied and went quietly from the room through the worship hall to the veranda. After a few moments she returned with a dry robe that smelled faintly of horses, as if it had recently been unpacked from a saddle pannier.

Shigeru went with Sachie to the other side of the hall, where there was a similar space divided into storerooms and an office with matted floor. The temple’s records were stacked in moldering piles, and a cracked inkstone lay abandoned on a low writing table.

“Does no one live here?” he asked.

“The local people believe this temple to be haunted,” she replied. “They won’t come near it. Priests are driven mad here. They kill themselves or run away. No one will disturb us; and if anyone sees us, they will think we are ghosts.”

She brought a bowl of cold water to the veranda, and he washed his face, hands, and feet.

“I will prepare something to eat,” she murmured. After she had gone, he stripped off his clothes, dried himself, and put on the borrowed robe. It had been made for a smaller man. He tied it as best he could, put Jato into the sash, and his knife inside the breast. It was becoming colder, and despite the dry clothes, his skin was beginning to tremble.

He returned to the matted room, and Lady Maruyama indicated that he should sit. She must have brought some furnishings with her on the packhorse, for there were crimson silk cushions on the floor that surely did not belong to the temple; a sword lay next to her.

“Thank you for your message,” he said. “I was very sorry to hear of your son’s death, and so soon after your husband.”

“I will tell you about it later,” she replied. “You have also suffered terrible loss.”

“I felt you understood, better than anyone,” he said.

She smiled. “I hope you did not lose everyone you loved.”

“No,” he replied, after thinking about it for a moment. “My brother still lives, my mother, my teacher. I have at least one friend. I have a lot to thank you for,” he added. “If you had joined Iida last year, the Otori would have been completely destroyed.”

“We had made an agreement. I gave you my word. I will never enter into an alliance with the Tohan.”

“Yet our acquaintance, Arai Daiichi, is now serving the Noguchi, whose name has come to mean ‘traitor’ throughout the Middle Country.”

“Arai had no alternative. He was lucky not to be forced to take his own life. I believe he is biding his time, as you are. We keep in touch as much as we can, through Muto Shizuka.”

“It was she who betrayed us to Iida,” Shigeru said. “Presumably, Arai does not know, since they are still together and she has borne him a son.”

“You are angry about that!”

“I am angry about many things,” Shigeru said. “I am learning patience. But I would not trust the Muto woman not to betray us again. Do not tell Arai about this meeting.”

Sachie came quietly into the room with a tray on which stood two bowls filled with a kind of stew, mostly vegetables, with egg stirred through it. She returned in a few moments with a teakettle and cups.

“It is very plain,” she apologized. “We had to bring everything with us on the horses. But Bunta will go and find more food if the rain stops tomorrow.”

“I should return to Misumi tomorrow,” Shigeru said.

“Then let us eat quickly, for we have much to talk about,” Naomi said.

He found he was ravenous, hard put to eat slowly, but she ate sparingly, as if she had little appetite, and watched him all the time.

When they had finished, Sachie took the bowls away; the young man, Bunta, brought in a small brazier with glowing charcoal, and then also retired. The rain continued to fall heavily; the wind soughed in the cedars. Night pressed in on them. The old building was full of strange sounds, as if its many ghosts talked in scratchy voices, their mouths full of dust.

Lady Maruyama said, “I believe my son was murdered.”

“How old was he?”

“Eight months.”

“Infants die from many causes,” Shigeru replied. Indeed, many children were not named until the second year of their life, when their chances of survival into adulthood seemed more ensured.

“He was an unusually robust child; he was never ill. But apart from that, I was given warnings that if I did not follow my late husband’s family’s wishes, I would be punished in some way.” Her eyes had become more luminous in the lamplight, but she spoke calmly and dispassionately.

“I would ask you how anyone dared dictate to you,” he said. “But the truth is, I am in the same situation. My life is now subject to my uncles’ wishes.”

“We are both betrayed by our closest relatives. Because your uncles, like my husband’s family, are willing-eager even-to appease and accommodate Iida Sadamu and the Tohan. It is only to be expected; in the short term they profit from it. But eventually such self-serving behavior can only lead to the downfall of the Western clans as well as the Otori. The Three Countries will be ruled from sea to sea by the Tohan with their cruelty. The female succession of Maruyama will come to an end.”

Shigeru leaned forward a little and spoke even more softly. “I will confide in you, though I have never spoken openly of this. I will have my revenge on Iida and destroy him, no matter how long it takes. Even he must have some weakness. I said I was learning patience: I am waiting for some strategy to be revealed to me, waiting for him to let down his guard or make some mistake. That is the only reason I am still alive. I will see him dead first.”

She smiled. “I am glad. It’s what I hoped to hear from you. It is my secret desire also. We will work together and share information and such resources as we have.”

“Yet it must be kept secret-perhaps for years.”

“What is kept hidden from the world increases in strength and worth,” she replied.

“I heard a rumor that Iida seeks to secure the Maruyama domain by marrying you himself,” Shigeru said, hoping he did not sound too abrupt.

“This is what my husband’s family hope to force me into. Neither the death of my son nor threats to my daughter’s life will make me do that. I would rather be dead.”

After a pause she said, “I should tell you something of my life so that you understand me. My husband, Ueki Tadashi, was from a small clan on the borders of the East and the Middle Country. He had been married before, to a woman from the East, and had three children: the eldest, a daughter, was older than I-already sixteen and married herself to a cousin of Sadamu’s, Iida Nariaki, whom my husband adopted, though Nariaki retained the Iida surname.”

“It is none of my business,” Shigeru said, “but who arranged this marriage? Did you choose your own husband?”

“I was somewhat against it, I confess. I did not like the idea of having stepchildren, and I was uneasy about such a close alliance with the Iida family. But I allowed myself to be persuaded and did not regret it at first: my husband was a delightful man-intelligent, kind, and a complete support to me.”

Shigeru tried to dismiss a sudden pang of something akin to jealousy.

Naomi went on, “But his children were another matter, and the very kindness of his nature meant he did not control them as he should. The daughter acted as though she were the heir to Maruyama. When my own daughter was born, she did not hide her rage and disappointment but began to insist that she be recognized legally. My husband never refused her as such but merely prevaricated. His health began to fail. When our son was born, he seemed to recover a little-he was very happy-but this lasted only for a matter of weeks. His health had been poor all summer, and he died before our son was a month old, from a tumor, it was believed.”

“You have my deepest sympathy,” Shigeru said.

“I had not realized to what extent he protected me until he was gone,” she said. “Since then, I have been assailed on all sides. I did not take the threats seriously until my son passed away. I had no proof that he had been poisoned, but he died so suddenly after having always been so strong. My accusations and suspicions were dismissed. I was held to be crazed with grief: opinions were voiced that a clan could not be led by a woman; a man would never be so weakened.”

He studied her face in the flickering lamplight. Her expression showed her sorrow, but he thought her character so steady that no grief would ever tip her into madness. He admired her enormously and wanted to tell her so, but he was afraid to reveal the depth of an emotion that he had not yet admitted to himself. He became awkward, speaking in short, abrupt sentences that rang false in his own ears. He wanted to tell her about his dream of his fern-child and how much her message had meant to him, but he was reluctant to express his own grief, in case he was softened by it and then…

The outcome of their conversation seemed thin and disappointing: he could offer her nothing in the way of political or military support, merely that they were united in their desire for Iida’s death.

However, the gap between desire and reality seemed insurmountable. All he could promise her was silent support-years of waiting and secrecy. It was hardly worth putting into words. Finally, even their desultory conversation failed completely and they sat in silence for many moments. The wind howled outside, shaking the roof, driving the rain against the walls, sending cold drafts through all the chinks.

“I suppose we may write to each other,” Shigeru said eventually, and she made a movement of acquiescence with her head but did not speak except to wish him good night. He bade her good night in reply and went to the office, where he lay and shivered most of the night in the thin, ill-fitting robe, fighting down the thought that she slept not twenty paces from him and that she had summoned him with other reasons in mind, now that they were both unmarried.

It was impossible not to admire her: she was beautiful, intelligent, brave, and possessed of deep feelings-everything a woman should be. But she had spoken of her husband so warmly: she had obviously loved him and still mourned him; for his part, he did not want to be involved with any woman, least of all one of such high rank, who was already desired by his greatest enemy and whom, he already knew, he would never be allowed to marry.

When he woke, the rain had stopped, though the early morning sky remained overcast. His own clothes were still damp, but he put them on again, leaving the borrowed robe folded on the floor. Sachie and Bunta had gone to the neighboring village to buy food for the return journey, for they were all eager to take advantage of the break in the weather.

Naomi invited Shigeru to stay until the others returned, for he could then take food with him, but he was anxious to cross the first pass before nightfall.

“Should I leave you alone?” he questioned.

She became almost angry with him. “If you want to leave, go now! I am in no danger, and even if I were, I am perfectly capable of defending myself.” She indicated the sword next to her. “There are also spears outside,” she said. “I assure you I can fight with both.”

They parted formally, with a certain sense of disappointment on both sides.

A wasted journey, he thought. We are both hopelessly weakened. He could not see how they could help each other, yet he could not imagine achieving anything without her. She was his only ally.

The farther he went, the worse he felt about leaving her. He wanted to tell her more; he felt he had not expressed his gratitude to her for supporting him against Iida, for understanding his grief, for making the journey to see him. It might be months before they met again. The thought was suddenly unbearable. He had walked for scarcely two hours when the rain began again, heavier than ever. Faced with the prospect of spending the night without shelter, he told himself it would be wiser to turn back; as soon as he turned, his spirits lifted. He walked swiftly, often breaking into a run, hardly noticing the rain lashing at him, soaking him, his heart pounding from exertion, from anticipation.

He saw immediately that the woman, Sachie, and the groom had not returned. Only the one horse, the pretty mare, stood in the shelter. She turned her head at his approach and whickered gently. He splashed through the puddles, undid his sandals, and leaped up onto the boards of the veranda.

He heard the sound of a sword sliding from the scabbard and put his hand to Jato, calling out, yet not wanting to name either himself or her. As he stepped into the temple area, the door to his left slid open and she stepped out, the drawn sword in her hand. For a moment they stared at each other without speaking. A flush lay beneath her normally white skin, and her eyes were brilliant with emotion.

“I… came back,” he said.

“I did not expect it to be you.” She looked at the sword and lowered it. “You are soaked.”

“Yes. The rain.” He gestured toward the outdoors, where the rain fell in a solid curtain.

“Sachie and Bunta will have stayed in the village,” she murmured. “Let me take your wet clothes.”

Pools of water were already collecting around him where his garments dripped on the floor. He took the sword from his sash and placed it inside the doorway of the matted room. She laid her sword next to it, then stepped toward him, her face still, her movements deliberate. He smelled her perfume, her hair, and then her breath. She stood close to him and her hands went to the knot in his sash. She undid it carefully and then looked up into his face as she pushed the outer garment back from his shoulders. Her hands brushed against the cold skin at his neck, and he remembered the birds’ plumage; she led him into the room, loosened her girdle, and drew him down onto the crimson cushions. He thought, I must not do this, but he was beyond choice, and then he thought, Everything else is denied to me; this one desired thing I will have. He remembered all he had feared for women, their frailty, their weakness, but she did not receive him with passiveness or weakness but gave herself to him and took him, all his strength and his need, with her own strength and power. Beneath the silk undergarments, her body was both slender and muscular, desiring his as much as his desired hers, astonishing and delighting him.

They clung to each other like fugitives in the deserted temple. While the rain fell, they were safe: no one would come as long as the rain kept falling. They were emperors in a palace above the clouds, in a world beyond time where anything was possible.

This is what it is to fall in love, he thought with a kind of wonder, never having expected to experience it, having always guarded himself against it on his father’s advice; now realizing the impossibility of resisting it, he laughed aloud.

She was seized by the same merriment and became playful, like a child. She brought tea and poured it not like a great lady but like a serving girl.

“I should serve you,” he said. “You are the head of your clan, and I am dispossessed. I am nothing.”

She shook her head. “You will always be Lord of the Otori clan. But we will serve each other. Here”-she spoke in familiar language-“take. Drink.” The abrupt words coming from her mouth made him laugh again.

“I love you,” he said.

“I know. And I you. There is a bond between us from a former life-from many lives, maybe. We have been everything to each other-parent and child, brother and sister, closest friends.”

“We will be husband and wife,” he said.

“Nothing can prevent it,” she replied, adding frankly, caressing him, “it is what we already are. I knew I loved you as soon as I saw you at Terayama. I recognized you in some way, as though I had known you deeply but had forgotten about you. My husband was still alive, and I knew I could never admit my love for you. But I did not stop thinking about you or praying for your safety. When my husband and my son died, it was only the thought of you that sustained me. I decided that so much had been taken from me, I would grasp the one thing I truly wanted.”

“I felt the same,” he said. “But what future is there for us? Before, you were a faint dream, a distant possibility. Now you have become my reality. What meaning will our lives have if we are only to be separated?”

“Why should we not marry? Come to Maruyama. We will marry there.” Her voice was warm and untroubled, and her optimism led him into a reverie where it was all possible: he would marry and live with this woman; they would establish a peaceful land in the West… they would have children.

“Would it ever be permitted?” he asked. “My uncles are now the heads of the Otori clan. My marriage would be of some importance to them. They would never approve of a union that so increased my standing and power. And there is Iida Sadamu.”

“The Tohan decided my first marriage. Why should they have any further say in my life? I am a ruler in my own right. I will not be dictated to!”

Her imperiousness made him smile, despite his forebodings. He saw her confidence-the assurance of a woman who knows she is loved by the man she loves. Despite the losses of the previous year, she still had a look of youth. Grief had marked her but had not corroded her spirit.

“Let us work toward it,” he said. “But can we keep such a thing secret? We might be able to meet once or twice without being discovered, but…”

“Let us not talk of danger now,” she interrupted him gently. “Both of us know the danger; we have to live with it daily. If we cannot meet, we may at least write to each other, as you said last night. I will send letters, as before, through Sachie’s sister.”

It reminded him of her previous message, brought by his former retainer.

“You met one of my warriors, Harada? I was astonished by his conversion to the Hidden.” He spoke more quietly, though there was no chance of being overheard through the downpour, and tentatively, unsure of how much she would reveal.

“Yes, Harada had some sort of vision. It is not uncommon among these people. Their god speaks to them directly when they pray to him. It seems, once heard, it is a voice that is hard to ignore.”

He felt that she was speaking of some direct experience. “Have you heard it?”

She smiled slightly. “There is much that appeals to me in these teachings,” she replied. “My children taught me how precious life is, how terrible it is to take it. As the leader of my clan, though, to give up the sword would condemn my people to immediate defeat by all those armed warriors who surround us. We must have some power to stand up to the cruel and the ambitious in their pursuit of conquest. But if everyone believed they faced a divine judge after death, maybe their fear of punishment would rein them in.”

He doubted it, feeling that men like Iida, who feared nothing in Heaven or on Earth, would be controlled only through strength of arms.

“Sometimes I think the voice is calling to me, but because of my position, I believe I am unable to answer. It seems offensive to me that people who will not defend themselves should be persecuted and tortured,” she went on. “They should be allowed to live in peace.”

“They give allegiance to a heavenly power, not their earthly rulers,” Shigeru said. “Therefore they cannot be trusted. I deeply regret Harada’s leaving my service.”

“You can trust Harada,” she said.

“Would you stand by and watch me take on three men?”

“No, I would fight alongside you. I do not claim to be one of the Hidden, only to admire and respect some of their teachings.”

There was so much to talk about, so many things to tell each other, and everything they learned about each other only increased their desire. When desire was slaked, they talked again, for the rest of the day, as the gray light slowly faded and night came, increasing their sense of isolation from the world, as if they had been transported to some bewitched mansion beyond time. The rain continued to pelt down; they hardly slept, totally absorbed in each other, body and mind, until exhaustion and passion blurred all barriers between them and it seemed they had truly become one person.

When the rain finally eased in the afternoon of the second day, the silence woke them as if from an intoxicated dream, calling them back to their separate lives, to a parting filled with anguish and joy. Sachie and Bunta returned before nightfall, full of apologies for the delay, but they fell silent when they saw Shigeru was there still. The young man went immediately outside to care for the horses. Sachie came inside and prepared food for them. They had hardly thought to eat and now were famished. She had bought eggs and winter greens, and made a broth with soybean paste and curd. Later, she cooked rice, saying she would prepare rice cakes for the journey back. She retired to sleep in the room Shigeru had previously occupied, giving no hint of her feelings in either expression or demeanor, yet clearly she was aware of what had happened between them-the very air seemed silky and heavy with their passion.

“She will never say anything to anyone,” Lady Maruyama assured Shigeru.

“And the groom?” He did not really care: he was just grateful to spend another night with her, not to lie shivering fervently paces away as he had before. He reached out and slipped his hands under the smooth mass of hair and cupped her head in his palms.

“He is a discreet and silent young man. Sachie will swear him to secrecy. I am in my own domain; I may do as I please! No one will question me or betray me.”

“Yet Iida may have spies everywhere. Even Arai’s lover works for the Tribe, and therefore possibly for Iida. How can we ever know whom to trust?”

“I am aware of all this, yet right now I feel no one can harm us,” she whispered.

When he poured himself into her, he felt the same. Yet he knew that this newborn passion could mean only greater danger for them both.