“Well, it’s a possibility,” the tengu replied. “But that’s some time ahead. They are a bunch of warriors, both Kakizuki and Miboshi, seriously injured in battle, mutilated, scarred, some blind, some without arms, some legless. They became ugly and imperfect and were turned out by their former masters, to starve to death or become bandits. Most of them are thickheads, but one or two among them have picked up some knowledge of this and that. Tsunetomo is not a complete idiot. Now they serve your brother, Master Kikuta. At first he seemed just another ambitious merchant, good at seizing opportunities and ruthless in eliminating his rivals—there are many men like that in Kitakami, but this year something changed.” The tengu had been staring into the flames as he spoke. Now he fixed Mu with his glittering eyes and said, “He has acquired some magic object from which he derives extreme power.”
Ima looked across at Mu and their eyes locked. Mu raised his eyebrows slightly and Ima made an almost imperceptible movement with his head. The tengu intrigued Mu, and, somewhat to his surprise, he felt he could trust him.
“It is a skull,” he said slowly. “The head was taken from the monk Gessho by Shikanoko when he killed him, and after Shisoku was killed in the same fight. Shisoku was the sorcerer who lived here, and made the creatures.”
“I know Shisoku,” the tengu said impatiently. “Or knew, I should say.”
“It was buried for years,” Mu went on. “Kiku returned to retrieve it and invest it with power in secret rituals.”
“Were these rituals conducted by himself alone?”
“With a woman,” Mu forced himself to say. “A fox woman.”
“Mu’s wife,” Ima explained.
Mu steeled himself to meet the tengu’s eyes. He felt they saw deep into his heart, even into his soul. They examined him without pity, saw through all the defenses he might erect, all the excuses he might make.
“Your name is Mu?” the tengu said. “Is that Mu written as ‘warrior’ or Mu written as ‘nothing’?”
“I don’t know. I have never seen it written.”
“Well, when I have finished with you, you will be both. You will be a great warrior, but you will be as nothing, free from all attachments. That is what I am going to teach you.”
The tengu spoke with such assurance, Mu could not help laughing. “You speak as though I have no choice in the matter.”
“That is correct.”
“What is your purpose?” Mu asked.
“I’m not going to tell you.” The tengu cackled with sudden brusque laughter. “Not yet, anyway.”
The tengu started the next day, waking Mu before it was light. There had been a deep frost in the night and the surface of the snow crackled beneath their feet when they walked outside.
“Since it is winter, we will start with a lesson on how to stay warm,” the tengu announced. He surveyed Mu by the light of a flaming branch he had plucked from the fire. “Look at you! There is nothing to you. You are as frail as a dead spider. Don’t you eat anything?”
“I eat plenty,” Mu said, trying not to shiver.
“I saw you last night, toying with a tiny bit of rabbit, drowning your appetite with that vile twig brew. You should have grabbed that carcass and shoved the whole thing in your mouth. That’s what Master Kikuta would do!”
“My daughter and my brother needed to eat, too,” Mu said. He had intended his voice to be mild, but it came out whiny. “Not to mention you, Sir Tengu, our honored guest.”
The tengu cackled. “Sir Tengu! That’s a good one. No one’s called me that before.”
“Do you have a name?” Mu said.
“You can call me Tadashii, because I am always right. Now, to work. Watch this.”
He handed the burning torch to Mu and began to breathe in a rapid rhythm. The snow beneath his feet melted immediately, steaming as he sank through the frozen surface down to the buried grass. Standing next to the tengu, Mu felt the heat radiate from him, making him believe for a moment that winter was over and spring had come.
“Now you do it,” Tadashii said.
“Just like that? You aren’t going to give me any instructions?”
“It should be second nature for you, just like the other skills that you’ve neglected. Imitate my breathing and think of the warmth of your own blood. That’s all I’m going to tell you.”
Tadashii took the smoldering branch back from Mu, waving it in the air so sparks flew from it and it crackled into flame again.
Mu began to breathe in the same rapid way as Tadashii had. He was watching the branch’s fiery arc when suddenly he felt its heat inside his belly. His blood began to boil, racing through his veins. The snow steamed around him as he sank through it to the grass beneath. He felt mud under his feet.
“Ha! Ha! Ha!” Tadashii’s laughter rang out through the silent forest. “Easy as breathing, isn’t it?”
Mu did not reply at once. Within himself something was melting like the snow. He saw a life beyond the great drifts of grief that had all but buried him, a life where warmth and laughter—and power—were all possible again.
“What else am I going to learn?” he said.
“Everything,” Tadashii promised. “I am going to teach you everything. It will be very hard work, but fun, too.”
* * *
It was hard work such as Mu had never known, but he reveled in it. All that he had felt was empty was now filled. He no longer dreamed of Shida or yearned after the foxlight that flickered in the marsh. He had a new purpose: to meet every challenge Tadashii threw at him and to master it. He stopped caring what the tengu’s intentions might be. The training had no end other than itself. By the time summer came he could use his own innate skills flawlessly and he had learned much more: the art of sword and bow; the roots and herbs of the forest that poisoned or cured; the names and properties of trees, plants, animals, insects; how to trap a stoat, whose meat when dried was a source of courage; how to track bears and wolves; how to recognize scorpions, spiders, snakes, and toads, and milk their venom.
His physical strength increased, as Tadashii showed him how to use his muscles and how to build them up. For hours he carried boulders the length of the stream and back again, and while he would never approach the tengu in strength—Tadashii could lift great rocks with one hand—he surpassed most ordinary men, despite his slight build and appearance. He was no longer lame. He kept the stick, but as a weapon. Tadashii forged a sword for him.
Tadashii could not give Mu wings, but he showed him how to leap to great heights, how to swing from treetop to treetop like a monkey, how to stride the crags like a mountain goat. He seemed to have an inexhaustible patience, which he also taught to Mu. Indeed, Mu thought he must have a different sense of time for, though he had spoken with some urgency on their first meeting, now he seemed to be in no hurry, either to solve the problem of Master Kikuta or to leave.
The seasons passed. It was winter again, and then another winter. Often in the long dark nights they played Go or checkers or chess, for the tengu loved all games, but still he gave no indication of what his original purpose might have been.
* * *
One spring night, two years after the tengu arrived, he took Mu by the shoulders and flew with him high above the forest toward the side of the mountain. It was the night of the full moon of the third month and they could see as clearly as if it were day. Mu caught a glimpse of water that was Lake Kasumi, and the river that flowed from it all the way to the capital, and, in the other direction, the Northern Sea.
Tadashii landed on a ledge where rocks had been placed in a circle, dropping Mu gently in the center of them. On each rock perched winged tengu; some, like Tadashii, had beaks, others long red noses. They were all armed with swords and bows. To see so many at once was alarming. Mu had landed on his hands and knees and he now turned this into a deep, reverent bow.
“Welcome,” said a number of voices, all low and gruff, like Tadashii’s.
“So this is your pupil?” said one long-nose
d being.
“It is,” Tadashii replied. “His name is Mu, the warrior of nothingness.”
“Does he understand the principles of being and non-being, of form and no-form?” the tengu asked.
“That’s not as important as being able to play a good game,” another tengu interrupted. “Is he going to be a player or a stone on the board?”
“That is not yet decided,” Tadashii said. “I am hoping you, my masters, will look on him favorably and instruct him.”
“If he is able to learn we will teach him. Let us see if he can survive our lessons.” There was a ripple of laughter, as if the tengu did not really believe that was possible.
Tadashii touched Mu’s head. “Be strong,” he whispered. “I hope we meet again.”
Mu shivered slightly. The uncharacteristic affection alarmed him as much as Tadashii’s words. There was a faint rush of air against his face, as Tadashii flexed his wings, followed by a greater rush as all the tengu rose into the air, leaving him alone on the mountainside.
Alone, but not alone. Physically the tengu might have departed, but they were still present in some way, observing Mu, as the moon set and the stars wheeled overhead. He settled, cross-legged, in the meditation position Tadashii had taught him, reminding himself he had been tied up for a week, in a far more uncomfortable way, and had survived. The first light of dawn filled the sky and birds began to sing piercingly. The mountain air was cold, heavy with dew. Mu warmed himself, almost without thinking. The hours passed. He was neither hungry nor thirsty. He had no needs and no desires. He knew only the eternal being that includes all life, all death, in which each person exists for a tiny moment and is then absorbed back into the endless void of all and nothing.
He knew he had great powers; he saw they were meaningless. He embraced the nothingness of his name.
He lost all track of time. He seemed to take leave of his body and fly above the land. At first it looked like a Go board and then more like a vast scroll, presenting various scenes to him. He left the Darkwood behind and soared over Lake Kasumi. He saw the lake was shrinking, its marshlands drying out, a rim of half-dried, foul-smelling mud clogging its beaches. He was above a city, to the north of the lake. Could this be Kitakami? He peered down, through buildings that seemed to have no roofs, so he could see straight into them. He saw Kiku, grown older, surrounded by servants and retainers. Mu perceived the network of his business empire, spreading like a spider’s web over the land.
Then the wind took him and blew him to the south. He saw a young woman on a pleasure boat, entertaining a man who looked like a merchant, one of Kiku’s rivals perhaps, and he looked deep down into the lake, where someone lay hidden, breathing through a reed. To his surprise, he recognized Chika. On the shore red lanterns denoted a festival. A troupe of acrobats were performing with monkeys. Mu noticed a strong, well-built boy, about twelve or thirteen years old, and an older lad, maybe in his twenties, wiry and flexible, a natural performer, with attractive, expressive features, who kept the crowd spellbound. A young girl of the same age beat time on a drum, her eyes fixed on the performer. A large black bird with a sprinkle of gold feathers hovered above him and it suddenly soared upward, as if it sensed Mu’s presence. He saw its bright yellow eyes searching, but it did not see him.
Now he was over the capital, floating above mansions and palaces. In a sumptuous room a great lord, his face gray-tinged and gaunt, was retching into a silver bowl. Outside, warriors and noblemen gathered anxiously. Along the riverbank were strewn corpses. Dogs scavenged among them. The river was a thin, dirty trickle. He was above a temple, newly built from gleaming cypress and cedar. Again he could see straight down into the halls and cloisters. An old man sat with a lute on his knees. He seemed to be dozing, but as Mu passed overhead he startled and turned his face upward, listening. Mu saw into the depths of the lake, where a sleeping dragon lay coiled, its scales shimmering dully in the murky water. A swirling motion began, a whirlpool formed, the dragon stretched and flexed. In the main hall of the temple a figure knelt, chanting sutras, before an altar where golden statues and painted deities kept watch. A woman’s voice rose and circled around the lutist’s song. The notes vibrated and echoed against one another until the friction became unbearable. At the edges of the land, smoke was rising, as when a scroll is first thrown on the fire. Its edges blacken, it begins to contort in the heat, scorch marks appear here and there, finally flames seize hold.
The land is about to burn, Mu realized.
Only the Darkwood seemed untouched. With a sense of gratitude and relief, he turned back to its dark green mass. He and Tadashii had made many journeys through the forest, but now Mu went farther than he ever had before. He was shown a building hidden among the trees, high in the mountains, a small shrine perhaps, or a hermit’s retreat. Looking down through the canopy of leaves he saw two silver-gray horses grazing in a clearing. Nearby a wolflike creature kept watch.
Gen!
In the clearing were four figures involved in an intricate dance. One was clearly a woman, though she dressed like a man. Two wore black cloths over their faces, covering everything but their eyes. The fourth wore a mask, a stag’s head with one broken antler.
“Shikanoko!” Mu cried.
Shikanoko looked up, the only person to notice Mu’s presence. Unlike the bird, he could see him. Mu felt their eyes meet and lock, but before he could speak he sensed he was losing the power of flight. For a moment he thought he would plummet to earth, and he almost blacked out as he rushed through the air, but he calmed himself and summoned his concentration, and found himself with a thump back on his mountain ledge.
Tadashii was sitting waiting for him. “Not a very elegant landing,” he said. “But otherwise, my masters have reported you did quite well. You have seen the state of the board. I hope we will soon be ready for my next move.”
“Do you think you could explain a little more clearly?” Mu said.
The tengu did not reply.
“I saw many strange things that I don’t understand,” Mu persisted.
“Meditate on them.” Tadashii refused to say anything else.
* * *
Her father was so preoccupied during the years of the tengu’s training, he hardly noticed Kinpoge growing up. She turned more and more to Ima, who took care of her, fed her, and taught her how to hunt and to cook. She liked to catch fish, taking them out of the water with her bare hands; she knew where to gather fern heads and burdock, mushrooms and chestnuts. She looked after the fake animals that remained and, particularly, the skull horse, Ban. She gave it grass and water every morning and, in the evenings, rode it through the air. She wove reins for Ban from the green rushes, and tied two cross pieces onto the pole, one as a handhold and one for her feet. In spring and summer she made garlands of flowers and decorated the skull.
Sometimes she wished she had a real horse, but, as Ima pointed out, a real horse could not fly and it would grow old and die, whereas Kiku had, unwittingly, given Ban another kind of life.
Ban responded to her attentions, turned its head to her when she approached, and leaped joyfully into the air when she untethered it.
She did not go far from the hut where she had lived all her life. Mountains surrounded it and she did not think Ban could fly that high. But she often followed the course of the stream that flowed past the hut. After a few miles, it divided into two, one branch continuing to the west, the other turning southward. Once she had gone south, but after a while the land became cultivated and there were too many people around. She knew instinctively that she should keep hidden and that she should never give away the location of the hut.
So, instead, she and Ban explored the west branch, which flowed through a steep, thickly wooded valley. Occasionally she saw movements in the trees and she realized monkeys lived there.
The monkeys fascinated her. She watched the mothers and babies with a kind of hunger—she who had hardly known her own mother. The mothers took such good care of the babi
es. In the summer they roamed carefree through the forest, leaping from tree to tree like her father, and in winter they gathered around the pools of the hot springs. Kinpoge spied on them through the branches of the leafless trees. Once or twice they noticed the skull horse and shrieked in alarm, as they did when eagles flew overhead.
One day, near sunset, it was maybe her tenth or eleventh spring on earth—like her father she had matured quickly and was nearly an adult—she and Ban were hovering over the thick canopy, hoping to catch sight of the monkeys, when a boy’s face popped out through the leaves, staring at her in astonishment. She could not tell his age, but he seemed taller than she was. His eyes were long and narrow, his nose rather sharp, his cheekbones high. The sun’s rays shone round him like a halo.
“Hello!” he exclaimed, and then, hurriedly, “Don’t be frightened! Don’t leave!”
Ban was quivering beneath Kinpoge’s hands. She knew she should escape quickly, but then the boy pulled himself a little higher so his feet were planted firmly in the crook of the branches, and stood up. Two monkeys pushed through the leaves. One climbed onto his shoulders, peering at Kinpoge and Ban and chattering excitedly. The other sat beside the boy, holding on to his leg with one hand and scratching his own belly with the other.
“Who are you?” the boy said. “Are you some magic creature? You must be, for you are so small and you are riding a very strange-looking steed. Do you understand human speech?” When she did not reply he persisted. “Do you speak some fairy language?” He began to mime his words with extravagant gestures that made her laugh.
“I understand you,” she called across the space between them.
“What’s your name? Mine is Takemaru—everyone calls me Take—but that’s a child’s name. Soon I will take an adult name, for I am nearly grown up.”
“Kinpoge,” she said.
“Like the flower? That is so beautiful. And it suits you, you are so small and bright! Where do you live? In the treetops?”
“I live with my father and my uncle. A little way upstream. I must go now.”