Heaven's Net Is Wide

43

Isamu’s widow was six months pregnant when her husband’s body was found. She had hoped all winter that he would reappear in the spring as suddenly as he had done before; her disappointment and grief were only made bearable by the fact that he had obviously been murdered, unarmed. His repentence for his past life had been sincere; his conversion had not been a sham. He had not sinned; they would meet again in Heaven, as the old teachings said, in the presence of the Secret One.

She married her brother’s oldest friend, Shimon, a boy she had grown up with, whose hopes had been destroyed by the stranger’s arrival, and he became a father to the boy born in the seventh month, to whom they gave a name common among the Hidden: Tomasu.

The child had been unusually active in the womb and continued to be so after his birth. He rarely slept, walked at nine months, and from then on seemed intent on escaping into the forest. At first he seemed destined to die from some accident, drown in the flooded spring river, fall from the crest of a pine tree, or simply get lost on the mountain. His stepfather predicted all these ends for him, in between trying to control him with scoldings, punishments, and rare beatings. His mother, Sara, swung between terror that they would lose him and pride at his quickness, agility, and affectionate nature.

Tomasu was in his fifth year when word came to the remote village of Mino of the persecution of the Hidden throughout the East, and his childhood was darkened by the shadow of Iida Sadamu, who, it was said, hunted down children like himself and killed them with his own hands. But two years later the Battle of Yaegahara seemed to divert Lord Iida’s attention away from undesirable elements within his own domain. It was known that the losses on both sides had been huge; the villagers gave thanks, not for the deaths but because they thought Iida’s warriors would have more urgent concerns in the years to come than combing this distant forest for members of the Hidden.

Iida became something of an ogre, used by mothers to scare children into obedience. They both believed in his dark power and giggled at it.

THE YEARS PASSED. The Hidden continued their peaceful life, revering all living things, sharing their weekly ritual meal, rarely speaking of their beliefs, merely living them. Tomasu survived his childhood despite his stepfather’s gloomy predictions; though he did not often show it, Shimon loved the boy almost as much as Sara did and certainly equally with his own children, the two girls, Maruta and Madaren.

Shimon and Sara did not speak of Tomasu’s real father, the stranger who was murdered, and Tomasu did not grow up to look the way they remembered him. He did not really resemble anyone they knew but had a look all his own, thin and fine-featured. The only similarity his mother noticed was in the curious lines across his palms: she knew his father had had the same hands.

Tomasu was not exactly unpopular with the other boys of the village; they sought him out for his skill in games and for his knowledge of the forest, but he seemed always to be fighting with them.

“What happened to you this time,” his mother wailed when he came home late one afternoon in his eleventh year, dripping blood from a head wound. “Come here. Let me do that.”

Tomasu was trying to wash the blood from his eyes and staunch the flow. “Just a stone I got in the way of,” he replied.

“But why were you fighting?”

“I don’t know,” he said cheerfully. “It was a stone fight. No particular reason.”

Sara had moistened an old rag and pressed it firmly against his temple. He rested against her for a moment, wincing slightly. Usually he wrestled with her embraces and struggled away from her.

“My wild boy,” she murmured. “My little hawk. What will become of you?”

“Were the other boys teasing you?” Shimon asked. It was well known that Tomasu lost his temper easily and that the other boys reveled in provoking him.

“Maybe. A bit. They say I have sorcerer’s hands.”Tomasu looked at his long-fingered hands, marked by the straight line. “I was just showing them how a sorcerer throws stones!”

“You must not fight back,” Shimon said quietly.

“They always start it,” Tomasu retorted.

“What they start is not up to you to finish. Leave it to the Secret One to defend you.”

The suggestion of sorcery disturbed Shimon. He watched the boy carefully, alert to any sign of real difference in him or of demonic possession. He kept Tomasu near him as often as he could, forbade him to wander alone in the forest where strange beings might enchant him, prayed day and night that the Secret One might protect him, not only from all the perils of the world but also from his own strange inner nature.

The wound left a scar that faded to silver against the honey-colored skin like a three-day moon.

ONE DAY in early spring a few years later they were working together by the river, cutting alder saplings whose bark would be stripped to make cloth. The river was swollen from the thaw; it swirled over the coppiced base of the alders and raced across the rocks in its bed, deafening them with a noise like many men shouting. Shimon had already had to speak severely to Tomasu; first the boy had wanted to pursue a fawn and its mother that had been drinking from the pool; then he had been distracted by a pair of kingfishers. Shimon bent to gather the saplings already cut, tied them into a bundle, and carried them up the slope so they would not get washed away. He left Tomasu alone for only a moment, but when he turned to look back, he saw his stepson disappearing downstream in the direction of the village.

“You worthless boy,” he yelled futilely after him, torn between continuing the work and pursuing him to punish him. His rage got the better of him; he grabbed one of the saplings and set off downstream. “I’ll thrash him properly for once! We’re too soft with him! It’ll do him no good in the long run.”

He was still muttering to himself when he came round the bend in the river and saw his youngest daughter, Madaren, struggling in the muddy water. She must have tried to cross the river by the stepping-stones, had slipped into one of the deep pools, and was trying to save herself by grasping at the exposed roots in the bank.

Tomasu had already reached her. The little girl was shrieking, but Shimon could barely hear her above the roar of the water. He dropped the stick he was carrying and saw the river whisk it away. Tomasu was only just able to stand in the spot where Madaren had fallen in. He peeled her fingers back from the root she was clutching, and she threw herself at him, clinging like a baby monkey to its mother. He held her tightly against his shoulder and, half swimming, half scrambling, brought her to the shore where Shimon took her from him.

Sara came running, giving thanks that the child was safe, scolding Maruta for not looking after her, praising Tomasu.

Shimon looked at his stepson as Tomasu leaped onto the bank, shaking the water from his hair like a dog. “What made you take off like that? You got to her just in time!”

“I thought I heard her calling me,” Tomasu replied. He was frowning. “But I couldn’t have…” The noise of the river rose around them, drowning all other sound.

“The Secret One must have warned you,” Shimon said in awe, and taking the boy’s hand traced the sign of the Hidden on his palm. He felt Tomasu had been chosen in some way, to become a leader of the Hidden, perhaps, to take over eventually from Isao. He began to speak more seriously to him at night about spiritual matters and to lead him more deeply into the beliefs of the Hidden. Despite Tomasu’s hot temper and restlessness, Shimon thought the boy had a natural gentleness and an aversion to cruelty, which both his parents did their best to foster.

IT WAS RARE for strangers or travelers to come to Mino. The village lay hidden in the mountains; no roads came near it, only the tracks over the mountain and along the river through the valley. Both were almost impassable, overgrown through lack of use. A landfall had all but blocked the valley path a few years previously. Occasionally one or other of the men crossed the pass to Hinode and returned with news and rumors. It was nearly sixteen years since the stranger came and disappeared again; well over fourteen since the birth of his son. Tomasu had grown into a striking young man. No one teased him anymore, and he no longer got into fights. Both boys and girls, Shimon noticed, sought him out, and it made his stepfather start to ponder the question of marriage. He gave Tomasu more tasks to do, demanding he spend less time running wild on the mountain but work alongside the men of the village and prepare for adult life.

Mostly Tomasu obeyed him, but one evening early in the ninth month he disappeared into the forest, telling his mother he was going to look for mushrooms. Shimon, returning wearily from a distant field where they had been harvesting the last of the beans, heard his wife’s voice echoing through the valley.

“Tomasu! Come home!”

Shimon sat heavily on the board step of the house; he was stiff all over and his joints ached. The night air felt frosty; winter would come soon.

“I swear I’ll tear him into eight pieces,” Sara grumbled as she brought water for her husband to wash.

“Unh!” he grunted, amused, knowing she would never carry out that threat.

“He said he was going for mushrooms, but it’s just an excuse!”

Their older daughter came running up to the house. Her eyes were bright with excitement, her cheeks glowing pink from the cold air. “Father! Father! Tomasu is coming and there is someone with him!”

Shimon stood, startled. His wife stared toward the mountain, shading her eyes.

The light was fading into dusk. Tomasu appeared out of the darkness, leading a short, stocky man who carried a heavy pack in a bamboo frame on his back. As they crossed the last dike, Tomasu shouted, “I found him on the mountain! He was lost!”

“No need to tell the whole world,” Shimon muttered, but already people were emerging from their houses to stare at the stranger. Shimon glanced at them; he had known them all his life; they were the only people he had known, apart from the last stranger who had come out of the forest and caused such grief. Shimon knew of course which families were Hidden and which were not, but to an outsider they were indistinguishable.

Tomasu brought the man up to the step. “I told him we would feed him. He can stay the night with us, and tomorrow I’ll show him the path to Hinode. He has come from Inuyama.”

The boy’s face was alight with the thrill of it. “I found mushrooms too,” he announced, handing the bundle over to his mother.

“I’m grateful to your son,” the man said, easing the pack from his back and setting it down on the step. “I was heading for the village called Hinode, but I’ve never been this way before. I was completely lost.”

“No one ever comes here,” Shimon replied cautiously.

The stranger looked around. A small crowd had gathered in front of the house; they stared with deep and undisguised interest but kept their distance. Shimon saw them suddenly through the other man’s eyes: their old, patched clothes, bare legs and feet, thin faces and lean bodies. “You can understand why; life is harsh here.”

“But even the harshest life needs some relaxation, some adornment,” the man said, a wheedling note entering his voice. “Let me show you what I carry in my pack. I’m a peddler. I have needles and knives, threads and cord, even a few pieces of cloth, new and not-so-new.” He turned and beckoned to the villagers. “Come and look!”

He began to unwrap the bundles that filled the bamboo frame.

Shimon laughed. “Don’t waste your time! You don’t give those things away surely? We have nothing to spare to give you in exchange.”

“No coins?” the man asked. “No silver?”

“We have never seen either,” Shimon replied.

“Well, I’ll take tea or rice.”

“We eat mainly millet and barley; our tea is made from twigs from the forest.”

The peddler stopped his unwrapping. “You have nothing to barter? How about a night’s lodging and a bowl of millet and a cup of twig tea?” He chuckled. “It sounds like riches to a man who was facing a cold night on the hard ground.”

“Of course you are welcome to stay with us,” Shimon said, “but we do not expect payment.” He addressed his daughter, who had been staring at the peddler without moving. “Maruta, bring more water for our guest. Tomasu, take our visitor’s belongings inside. Wife, we will be one extra for the evening meal.”

He felt a moment of sorrow as his stomach reminded him what that one extra mouth to feed would mean, but he put the feeling from him. Wasn’t one of the old teachings about welcoming strangers, who might be angels in disguise?

He shooed the rest of the villagers away, seemingly ignoring their murmured pleas to at least be allowed to look at the needles, the cloth, the knives, all precious items to them, but inwardly wondering if he might perhaps secure a few needles for the women, something pretty for the girls…

His wife was adding the mushrooms to the soup; the inside of the house was smoky and warm. Outside it was growing colder by the minute; he thought again that they would have the first frost that night.

“You would indeed have been cold sleeping outside,” he remarked as his wife poured the soup into the old wooden bowls.

The youngest child, Madaren, innocently began to say the first prayer over the food. Sara put out a hand to hush her, but the peddler very quietly finished her words and then spoke the second prayer.

There was a long moment of silence, and then Shimon whispered, “You are one of us?”

The peddler nodded. “I did not know there were any here; I had never heard of this village.” He drank his soup noisily. “Be thankful no one else knows of your existence, for Iida Sadamu hates us and many have died in Inuyama, even as far west as Noguchi and Yamagata in the Middle Country. If Iida ever succeeds in conquering the Three Countries, he will wipe us out.”

“We are no threat to Lord Iida or to anyone,” Sara said. “And we are safe here. My husband and Isao, our leader, are respected; they help everyone. Everyone likes us; no one will harm us here.”

“I pray that he will protect you,” the peddler said.

Shimon noticed the puzzlement in his daughters’ eyes. “We are safe under his protection,” he said swiftly, dreading seeing that puzzlement turn to fear. “Like the little chicks under the mother hen’s wings.”

When the sparse meal was finished, the peddler insisted on showing them his wares, saying, “You must choose something: it will be payment, as I said.”

“It is not necessary,” Shimon replied politely, but he was curious to see what else the man carried, and he was still thinking about the needles; they were so useful, so easily lost or broken, so hard to replace.

Sara brought a lamp. They rarely lit them, usually going to bed as soon as darkness fell. The unusual light, the precious objects made them all excited. The little girls stared with shining eyes as the peddler unwrapped squares of woven cloth in pretty patterns, needles, a small doll carved from wood, spoons made of red lacquer, skeins of colored thread, a bolt of indigo-dyed hemp cloth, and several knives, one of which was more like a short sword, though it had a plain hilt and no scabbard.

Shimon could not help noticing that Tomasu’s eyes were drawn to it and that, as the boy leaned forward into the light to look more closely, his right hand seemed to curve as though the sword were already settling against the line across his palm.

The peddler was watching him, a slight frown between his eyes. “You like it? You should not!”

“Why do you carry such instruments of murder?” Sara said quietly.

“People offer me things in exchange,” he replied, lifting the sword carefully and rewrapping it. “I’ll sell it somewhere.”

“Why don’t we have weapons?” Tomasu whispered. “We would not be so defenseless then against those who seek to kill us.”

“The Secret One is our defense,” Shimon said.

“It is better to die ourselves than to take the life of another,” Sara added. “We have taught you that all your life.”

The boy flushed a little under their rebukes and did not reply.

“Did that knife kill someone?” Maruta asked, recoiling slightly as if it were a snake.

“That is what it is made for,” Shimon told her.

“Or to kill yourself with,” the peddler said and, seeing the children’s astonished eyes, could not resist embellishing. “Warriors think it is honorable in certain circumstances to take their own lives. They cut their bellies open with a sword like this one!”

“It is a terrible sin,” Sara murmured, and taking Maruta’s hand, she traced the sign of the Hidden on it. “May he protect us not only from death but from the sin of killing!”

The men whispered their assent, but Tomasu said, “We are not likely to kill; we have no enemies here and no weapons.” Then he seemed to become aware of his mother’s disapproval. “I pray, too, that we may never have either,” he said seriously.

Sara poured tea for everyone, and they ended the evening with a final prayer for the coming of the kingdom of peace. The peddler gave the doll to Madaren and to Maruta some red cords for her hair. Shimon asked for needles and received five.

The next morning before he left, the peddler insisted on leaving the hemp cloth. “Have your wife make you a new robe.”

“It is too valuable,” Shimon remonstrated. “We have done so little for you.”

“It’s heavy,” the man replied. “You’ll be saving me the trouble of carrying it farther. I’m grateful to you, and we are fellow-believers, brethren.”

“Thank you,” Shimon said, taking it gratefully. He had never owned anything so costly. “Will you return here? You are welcome to stay with us at any time.”

“I will try to come again, but it won’t be for months. Next year or the year after.”

“Where will you go from here?” Shimon asked.

“I was going to try to get to Hinode, but I think I’ll give up that plan. I want to be in the West next year. If your son can show me the way back to the river, the Inugawa, I can get to Hofu by ship before winter comes.”

“Do you travel throughout the Three Countries?”

“I have been all over; I have even been to Hagi.” The peddler picked up the frame, and Shimon helped fix it on his back.

“I have never even heard of Hagi,” he admitted.

“It is the main city of the Otori, who were defeated by Iida at the Battle of Yaegahara. You must have heard of that!”

“Yes, we heard of it,” Shimon said. “How terrible the struggles between the clans are!”

“May He protect us from them,” the peddler said. He was silent for a few moments, then seemed to shake himself.

“Well, I must go. Thank you again, and take care of yourselves.”

Both men looked around for Tomasu. Shimon noted with approval that he was already at work, gathering fallen leaves to spread on the empty fields, which were white with frost. He was about to call him when the peddler remarked, “He does not look like you. Is he your own son?”

“Yes,” Shimon heard himself say, and even added, “He takes after my wife’s father.” He was suddenly uneasy at the man’s curiosity and garrulity. “I will show you the way myself,” he said. He was afraid that if Tomasu left with the peddler he might never come back.