He made arrangements for Mai to be given money and found accommodation, and she departed, promising to return within two days.
Mai had barely left the residence when Shigeko returned with Gemba. They had been checking on the horses, preparing saddles and bridles for the next day, and discussing strategy. Shigeko, usually so self-controlled and calm, was brilliant with excitement from the events of the day, and anticipation of the contest. He was relieved, for normally she would have observed his silence and his lack of high spirits, relieved too that it was too dark in the room for her to see his face.
She said, “I must give you back Jato, Father.”
“Certainly not,” he replied. “The Emperor himself gave it to you. It is yours now.”
“Really, it is too long for me,” she protested.
Takeo forced himself to smile. “Nevertheless, it is yours.”
“I will give it to the temple until…”
“Until what,” he prompted her.
“Either your son, or mine, is old enough to bear it.”
“It will not be the first time it has rested there,” he replied. “But it is yours, and confirms you as the heir not only to the Maruyama but also to the Otori.”
Takeo realized as he spoke that the Emperor’s recognition made the question of her marriage even more crucial. She would bring the Three Countries to whomever she married, with the Emperor’s blessing. Whatever demands Saga made, he would not give in to them immediately, not before consulting Kaede.
He longed for Kaede now, not only for her body, with deep desire fueled by grief, but for her wisdom, her clarity, her gentle strength. I am nothing without her, he thought. He longed to be home.
It was not hard to persuade Shigeko to retire early, and Gemba also took himself off to bed, leaving Takeo alone to face the long night and the next day, filled with grief and anxiety, unable to give rein to either.
40
Minoru came as always at first light, followed by the maids bringing tea.
“It promises to be a fine day,” he said. “I have prepared records of everything that took place yesterday, and will likewise record everything that happens today.”
When Takeo took the records without replying, the scribe said hesitantly, “Lord Otori does not look well.”
“I slept badly, that’s all. I must be well. I must continue to dazzle and impress. I cannot be otherwise.”
Minoru raised his eyebrows very slightly, surprised by Takeo’s bitter tone.
“Surely your visit has been a huge success?”
“We will know by the end of the day.”
Takeo came to a sudden decision and said, “I am going to dictate something to you. Make no comment and tell no one. You need to be forewarned in order to arrange our return home somewhat earlier than anticipated.”
Minoru prepared the inkstone and took up the brush without speaking. Dispassionately Takeo related all that Mai had told him the previous night, and Minoru wrote it down.
“I am sorry,” he said when he had finished. Takeo looked reprovingly at him. “I am apologizing for my lack of skill. My hand trembled and the writing is very poor.”
“It does not matter, as long as it is legible. Keep it safe—I will ask you to read from it later, tonight or tomorrow.”
Minoru bowed. Takeo was aware of his scribe’s silent sympathy; the fact that he had shared the news of Taku’s death with another human being gave him a little relief from his anguish.
“Lord Saga has sent you a letter,” Minoru said, producing the scroll. “He must have written last night. He shows you great honor.”
“Let me see it.” The writing reflected the man, bold and forceful, the new ink strokes black and emphatic, the style square.
“He congratulates me on the Emperor’s graciousness toward me, and on the success of my gift, and wishes me good fortune today.”
“He is alarmed at your popularity,” Minoru said. “And afraid that if you lose the contest, the Emperor will still favor you.”
“I will abide by our agreement, and I expect him to,” Takeo replied.
“But he expects you to find some way of wriggling out from it, and so he sees no reason why he should keep it.”
“Minoru, you have become too cynical! Lord Saga is a great warlord from an ancient clan. He has made this agreement publicly. He cannot go back on it without bringing dishonor on himself, and nor can I!”
“That is precisely how warlords become great,” Minoru muttered.
THE STREETS WERE even more crowded than the day before, and people were already dancing frenetically. There was a feverish atmosphere; the day was hotter, with the humidity that heralded the plum rains. The arena in front of the Great Shrine was packed around all four sides with spectators: women in hooded robes, men in brightly colored clothes, children, all holding sunshades and fans. Within the red sand outer circles the horsemen waited—Saga’s team had red cruppers and breast straps, Shigeko’s white. The horses’ saddles were inlaid with mother of pearl; their manes were plaited—their forelocks and tails flowed as shiny and silky as a princess’s hair. A thick yellow straw rope divided the outer circle from the inner, where the sand was white.
Takeo could hear the yelping of excited dogs from the eastern side of the arena, where about fifty white dogs were penned in a small enclosure festooned with white tassels. At the back of the ground, a silken booth had been erected for the Emperor, who was hidden as before behind a bamboo blind.
Takeo was guided to a place a little to the right of this booth, and made welcome by the noblemen and women, warriors and their wives, some of whom he had met during the festivities of the previous day. The kirin’s influence was already apparent—one man showed him an ivory toggle carved in its likeness, and several women wore hoods decorated with its image.
The atmosphere was that of a country picnic, lively and chattering, and he tried to take part in it wholeheartedly. But every now and then the scene would seem to fade and the sky darken, and his eyes and mind filled with the image of Taku, shot in the neck and bleeding to death.
He turned his attention to the living, to his representatives: Shigeko, Hiroshi, and Gemba. The two pale gray horses with black manes and tails contrasted strikingly with Gemba’s black. The horses paced calmly around the ring. Saga himself was mounted on a large bay horse, his two supporters Okuda and Kono on a piebald and a chestnut. Their bows were huge compared to Shigeko’s—and all three had arrows fletched with white and gray heron’s feathers.
Takeo had never witnessed dog hunting before, and the rules were explained to him by his companions.
“You can only hit certain parts of the dog: back, leg, neck. You mustn’t hit the head, the soft part of the belly, or the genitals, and you lose points if you draw blood, or if the dog dies. The more blood, the worse the shot. It’s all about perfect control, which is very difficult to achieve when the horse is galloping, the dog is running, and the archer is powerful.”
They rode in order of rank, from lowest to highest, the first pair Okuda and Hiroshi.
“Okuda will go first to show you how it is done,” Saga said to Hiroshi, generously, for to ride second held a slight advantage.
The first dog was brought into the circle, Okuda also entered the ring and put his horse into a gallop, letting the reins fall on its neck as he brought his bow upward and set the arrow.
The dog’s leash was slipped off, and it immediately began to prance about, barking at the galloping horse. Okuda’s first arrow whistled past its ears, causing it to yelp in surprise and back away, its tail between its legs. The second arrow struck it on the chest.
“A good shot!” the man next to Takeo exclaimed.
The third shot caught the running dog in the back. The arrow was released with too much force—blood began to stain the white fur.
“Rather poor” was the verdict.
Takeo felt tension begin to build in him as Hiroshi entered the ring and Keri began to gallop. He had known the hor
se almost as long as he had known the man—nearly eighteen years. Could the gray withstand this sort of contest? Would he let his rider down? He knew Hiroshi was highly skilled with the bow, but could he compete with the top bowmen of the capital?
The dog was released. Perhaps it had been watching its fellow’s fate and knew what was in store; it shot immediately out of the circle, pelting back to the other dogs. Hiroshi’s first arrow missed it by a footspan.
The dog was captured, brought back, and released once more. Takeo could see it was terrified and snarling. They must smell the blood and the fear, he thought. Or maybe they communicate with each other and warn each other. Hiroshi was more prepared this time, but the arrow still failed to hit its mark.
“It’s harder than it looks,” Takeo’s neighbor said sympathetically. “Takes years of practice.”
Takeo stared at the dog as it was brought back for the third time, trying to will it to sit still. He did not want Hiroshi to hurt it, but he did want him at least to score one hit. The crowd went silent; beneath the sound of the galloping horse he could hear a very faint humming, the noise Gemba made when he was content.
No other human could hear it, but the dog could. It stopped struggling and yelping, and when it was released, it did not race away, but sat and scratched itself for a moment before getting up and walking slowly round the circle. Hiroshi’s third arrow hit it in the flank, knocking it to the ground and making it yelp, but not drawing blood.
“That was an easy one! Okuda will win this round.”
And so the judges decreed. Okuda’s second hit, even though it drew blood, was scored higher than Hiroshi’s two misses.
Takeo was preparing himself for another defeat—and then no matter how Shigeko fared, the contest would be decided. His eyes rested on Gemba, no longer humming in relaxed contentment, but looking as alert as he ever did. The black horse beneath looked alert too, gazing at the unfamiliar scene with pricked ears and large eyes. Lord Kono was waiting in the outer circle on his fine-boned high-spirited chestnut. He rode well, as Takeo already knew, and the horse was fast.
Since Hiroshi had lost the previous round, Gemba rode first this time. The next dog was more docile, and did not seem frightened of the galloping horse. Gemba’s first arrow seemed to hover through the air and land gently on the dog’s rump. A good hit, and no blood. His second shot was similar, again not drawing blood, but the dog was alarmed by now, running and zigzagging across the ground. Gemba’s third shot missed.
Kono then came out on the chestnut, putting it into a showy gallop around the outer circle, sending the red sand flying. The crowd roared in appreciation.
“Lord Kono is very skillful and very popular,” Takeo’s neighbor informed him.
“He is indeed a joy to watch!” Takeo agreed politely, thinking, I am losing everything, yet I will show neither anger nor grief.
The dogs in the enclosure were getting more excited; the yelping turned to howling, and each dog released was made wilder by alarm. Nevertheless, Kono scored two perfect bloodless hits. On the third attempt the chestnut horse, overexcited by the cheers of the crowd, bucked slightly as Kono drew the bow, and the arrow sailed over the head of the dog and hit the side of the wooden platform beyond. Several youths jumped down to claim it, the lucky victor brandishing it over his head.
After a long discussion by the judges, the second bout was declared a draw.
“Now we might have an Emperor’s decision,” the man next to Takeo declared. “That’s always very popular—it’s how an overall draw is decided.”
“That does not seem very likely, since I believe Lord Saga is considered to have the highest skills in this sport.”
“You’re right, of course. I just did not want to…” The man appeared overcome with embarrassment, and after a few moments’ awkward silence he excused himself and walked away to join another group. He whispered to them, and Takeo heard his words clearly.
“Really, I cannot bear to sit next to Lord Otori while he faces his own death sentence. I can hardly enjoy the sport for pitying him!”
“It’s being said that this contest is an excuse for him to retire without being defeated in battle. He does not mind—there’s no need to feel sorry for him.”
Then silence fell over the whole arena as Shigeko entered the circle and Ashige began to gallop. He could hardly bear to look at her, yet he could not tear his eyes away. After the male contestants she seemed tiny and fragile.
Despite the excitement of the crowd, the frantic barking of the dogs, and the rising tension, both woman and horse seemed completely relaxed, the horse’s gait swift and smooth, the woman straight-backed and serene. Shigeko’s miniature bow and arrows elicited gasps of surprise, which turned to admiration as the first one gently nudged the dog in the side. It snapped at it, as if at a fly, but was not hurt or frightened, and then it seemed to sense that this was a game, one that it was happy to play. It ran around the circle in perfect time with the horse. Shigeko leaned down and let the second arrow go as if it were her hand and she were stroking the creature’s neck. The dog shook its head and wagged its tail.
Shigeko urged the horse to a faster gallop and the dog ran at its heels, mouth open, ears flying, tail plumed. They circled the arena three times like this; then she pulled the horse to a halt in front of the Emperor. The dog sat behind her, panting. Shigeko bowed deeply, put the horse into a gallop again, circling ever closer to the dog, which sat and watched her, swiveling its head, its pink tongue lolling. The third arrow flew faster but no less gently, hitting the dog with a barely audible sound just below its head.
Takeo was overcome with admiration for her, for her strength and skill, perfectly controlled, tempered by gentleness. He felt the corners of his eyes grow hot, and feared pride would unloose what grief had not. He frowned and held his face impassive, his muscles immobile.
Saga Hideki, the final contestant, now rode into the white sanded circle. The bay horse was pulling at the bit, fighting its rider, but the man controlled it easily with his huge strength. He wore a black robe, with arrow quills emblazoned across the back, and a deerskin over each thigh to protect his legs, the black scut hanging almost to the ground. When he lifted his bow, the crowd gasped; when he set the arrow, they held their breath. The horse galloped, foam flying from its mouth. The dog was released; barking and howling, it dashed across the ground. Saga’s first arrow flew faster than the eye could follow, perfectly judged. It hit the dog in the side, knocking it over. The dog struggled to its feet, winded and dazed. It was easy for Saga to hit it again with his second arrow, again drawing no blood.
The sun was in the western sky, the heat increasing as the shadows lengthened. Despite the shouting all around him, the howling of the dogs, the shrieking of children, an icy calm descended upon Takeo. He welcomed it, for it deadened all emotions, laying its frozen hand over grief, regret, and rage alike. He watched dispassionately as Saga galloped around the circle again, a man in perfect control of mind and body, steed and weapon. The scene became dreamlike. The final arrow flew, hitting the dog in the side again with a dull, muted sound. It must have drawn blood, he thought, but nothing stained the white fur or the pale sand.
Now everyone fell silent. He felt all eyes were on him, though he looked at no one. He tasted defeat in his throat and belly, bitter, galling. Saga and Shigeko must at least be equal. Two draws and one win—the victory would go to Saga.
But suddenly, before his eyes, as if continuing the dream, the white sand of the arena began to blossom red. The dog was bleeding terribly, from both mouth and anus. People exclaimed in shock. The dog arched its back, shook its head, scattering blood in an arc across the sand, yelped once, and died.
Saga’s strength was too great, Takeo thought. He could not temper his male force—he could slow the arrow, but could not lessen its power. The two earlier blows had destroyed the dog’s internal organs and killed it.
He heard the shouts and cheering as if from a great distance. He rose slowly
to his feet, gazing toward the end of the arena, where the Emperor sat behind the bamboo screen. The contest had ended in a draw; the decision was now the Emperor’s. Slowly the crowd fell silent. The contestants waited, motionless, the red team on the eastern side, the white team on the western, the long shadows of the horses’ legs stretching right across the arena. Dogs still barked from the enclosure, but there was no other sound.
Takeo realized that during the course of the contest people had drawn away from him, not wanting to witness his humiliation too closely, or to share in his inauspicious fate. Now he waited alone to hear the outcome.
Whispering came from behind the screen, but he deliberately closed his ears to it. Only when the Minister appeared and he saw the official glance first toward Shigeko, and then, more nervously, at Saga, did he feel the first glimmer of hope.
“Since Lady Maruyama’s team shed no blood, the Emperor awards the victory to the white team!”
Takeo dropped to his knees and prostrated himself. The crowd shouted in approval. When he sat up, he saw that suddenly the space around him had filled as people rushed to congratulate him, to be close to him. As the news spread throughout the arena and beyond, the singing started again.
Lord Otori has appeared in the capital;
His horses stir up our land.
His daughter won a great victory;
Lady Maruyama shed no blood.
The sand is white. The dogs are white.
The white riders prevail.
The Three Countries live in peace;
So will all the Eight Islands!
Takeo looked toward Saga, and saw the warlord was gazing back at him. Their eyes met, and Saga inclined his head in recognition of the victory.