Two more guards sat by a small brazier at one end of the veranda, lamps burning on either side of them. He passed by so close he saw the flames bend and the smoke eddy. The men, startled, gazed out into the darkness of the garden. An owl drifted past on silent wings, and they laughed at their own fears.
“A night for ghosts,” one said mockingly.
All the doors were open, and small lights glimmered in the corner of each room. He could hear the breath of sleepers within. I must know hers, he thought. She has slept beside me for so many nights.
He thought he had found her in the largest room, but when he knelt beside the sleeping woman, he realized it was Hana. He was amazed at the hatred he felt for Kaede’s sister, but he left her and went on.
The air was stifling inside the residence; he was still wet from the river, but he did not feel cold. He bent over several sleeping women and listened to their breathing. None of them was Kaede.
It was high summer, barely six weeks since the solstice. Dawn would come soon. He could not stay here. His one aim had been to see her: Now that he could not find her, he did not know what to do. He returned to the garden; it was then that he noticed the dim shape of a separate building that he had not seen before. He made his way toward it, realized it was a little pavilion built above a tinkling stream, and through the sound of the water recognized her breath.
Here, too, there was a lamp burning, very faint as though it was about to consume the last of its oil. Kaede sat, legs folded beneath her, staring into the darkness. He could not make out her face.
His heart was pounding far more than before any battle. He let visibility return as he stepped up onto the wooden floor, and whispered, “Kaede. It is Takeo.”
Her hand went immediately to her side, and she brought out a small knife.
“I have not come to harm you,” he said. “How can you think that?”
“You cannot hurt me any more than you already have,” she replied. “I would kill you, except I believe only your son can do that!”
He was silent for a moment, at once understanding what had happened.
“Who told you this?” he said finally.
“What does it matter? It seems everyone knew except me.”
“It was a long time ago. I thought…”
She did not let him go on. “The act may have been a long time ago. The deception has been constant. You have lied to me throughout our years together. That is what I will never forgive.”
“I did not want to hurt you,” he said.
“How could you watch me swell with your child, always fearing I might bear the son who would grow up to kill you? While I was longing for boy children, you were praying to avoid them. You preferred to see me cursed with twin girls, and when our son was born, you hoped he would die. Maybe you even arranged his death.”
“No,” he said angrily. “I would never kill any child, least of all my own blood.” He tried to speak more calmly, to reason with her. “His death was a terrible loss—it has driven you to this.”
“It opened my eyes to what you really are.”
Takeo saw the full extent of her rage and grief and was helpless before it.
“It is one more deception in a life that has been full of deceit,” she went on. “You did not kill Iida; you were not raised as a warrior. Your blood is tainted. I have given my whole life to what I see now was a delusion.”
“I have never pretended to you to be anything other than I am,” he replied. “I know all my failings: I have shared them with you often enough.”
“You have pretended openness while hiding many worse secrets. What else are you keeping from me? How many other women were there? How many other sons?”
“None. I swear to you…. There was only Muto Yuki, when I thought you and I were separated forever.”
“Separated?” she repeated. “No one separated us, save you. You chose to go: to abandon me, because you did not want to die.”
There was enough truth in this to shame him deeply.
“You are right,” he said. “I was stupid and cowardly. I can only ask for your forgiveness. For the sake of the whole country. I beg you not to destroy everything we have built up together.”
He wanted to explain to her how they had held the country together in harmony, how that balance must not be broken, but no words would repair what had been shattered.
“You yourself destroyed it,” she replied. “I can never forgive you. The only thing that will relieve my pain is to see you dead.” She added bitterly, “The honorable thing would be to take your own life, but you are not a warrior and would never do that, would you?”
“I promised you I would not,” he said in a low voice.
“I release you from that promise. Here, take this knife! Cut open your belly, and then I will forgive you!”
She held it out to him, gazing directly at him. He did not want to look at her, lest the Kikuta sleep should fall on her. He stared at the knife, tempted to take it and slash into his own flesh. No physical pain could be greater than the anguish within his soul.
He said, trying to control himself, hearing his own stilted words as though they were a stranger’s, “There are arrangements to be made first. Shigeko’s future must be ensured. The Emperor himself has recognized her. Well, there are many things I wanted to tell you, but probably I will never have the chance to. I am prepared to abdicate in our daughter’s favor. I trust you to come to some suitable agreement with Zenko.”
“You will not fight like a warrior; you will not die like a warrior. How deeply I despise you! I suppose you will sneak away now, like the sorcerer you are.”
She leaped to her feet, shouting, “Guards! Help me! There is an intruder!”
Her sudden movement made the lamp expire. Complete darkness fell on the pavilion. The guards’ torches glimmered through the trees. In the distance Takeo could hear the first cocks crowing. Kaede’s words struck him like Kotaro’s poisoned knife blade. He did not want to be discovered here like a thief or a fugitive. He could not bear the idea of further humiliation.
He had never found it so hard to take on invisibility. His concentration had been fragmented; he felt as if he had been torn into pieces. He ran to the garden wall and clambered over it, crossed the courtyard to the outer wall, and inched his way up. When he reached the top, he could see all the way down to where the surface of the moat gleamed an ink black. The sky was paling in the east.
Behind him he could hear the pounding of feet. He lost invisibility, heard the creak of the bowstring, the thrum of the arrow, and half-dived, half-fell into the water; the impact knocked the breath from his body and made his ears ring. He surfaced, gulped air, saw the arrow next to him, heard others splash around him, dived again and swam to the bank, pulling himself into the shelter of the willows.
He took several deep breaths, shook the water from him like a dog, went invisible again, and ran through the streets to the town gate. It was already open, and people who had been waiting all night to leave the city were passing through it, their possessions wrapped up in bundles on shoulder poles or stuffed into small handcarts, their children solemn-eyed and bewildered.
Takeo was filled with pity for them, once again at the mercy of the warlords. Through his own grief he tried to fathom some way to help them, but there was nothing within him. All he could think was It is finished.
In his mind he saw the gardens at Terayama and the incomparable paintings, heard Matsuda’s words echo down the years. Come back to us when all this is over.
Will it ever be over? he had asked then.
Everything that has a beginning has an ending, Matsuda had replied.
Now the ending had come suddenly but inevitably; the fine mesh of Heaven’s net had closed around him, as in the end it closes around all living beings. It was all over. He would go back to Terayama.
He found Gemba still sitting in meditation on the edge of the forest, the horses grazing beside him, their manes beaded with dew. They lifted their he
ads and whickered at his approach.
Gemba did not speak, simply gazed on Takeo with his shrewd, compassionate eyes, then got to his feet and saddled the horses, humming all the while under his breath. Takeo’s shoulder and arm were aching again and he felt the fever trying to take hold. He was briefly grateful that he was riding the gentle Ashige, and thought of Tenba far away with Shigeko in Inuyama.
The sun was rising, burning off the mist as they rode along the narrow path toward the temple, deep in the mountains. A kind of lightness came over him. Everything fell away beneath the rhythm of the horses’ feet and the heat of the sun. Grief, regret, shame all dissolved. He recalled the dreamlike state that had descended on him in Mino when he had come face to face for the first time with the bloody violence of warriors. Now it seemed to him that he had indeed died that day and that his life since had been as insubstantial as the mist, a dream of passion and striving that was burning away in the clear, dazzling light.
53
Shigeko had made the slow journey back to Inuyama with the many wounded, including the horse, Tenba, the kirin, and the man she loved. Despite the desperate state of many of the men, Kahei had ordered them to wait on the plain while the main army returned to Inuyama, for the road was steep and narrow, and the need for haste was pressing. When the way was finally clear, she had thought the horse and the kirin would recover and Hiroshi would die. She spent the long day tending the wounded with Mai, and at night she gave way to the weakness of making impossible bargains in her mind, for Heaven and all the gods to take whatever they wanted but to spare him. Her own wound healed quickly. She walked for the first few days; it did not matter that she limped as their progress down the mountain track was so slow. The wounded moaned or babbled in fever, and every morning they had to dispose of the corpses of those who had died in the night. How terrible even victory in war is, she thought.
Hiroshi lay uncomplaining on the litter, drifting in and out of consciousness. Every morning she expected to find his limbs still and his skin cold, but though he did not seem to be getting better, he did not die. On the third day the road improved, the slope became less steep, and they began to cover more distance between dawn and dusk. That night they rested at the first proper village. An ox and cart were available, and Hiroshi was transferred onto it in the morning. Shigeko climbed up and sat next to him, holding water to his lips and keeping the sun off his face. Tenba and the kirin walked alongside, both limping.
Just before Inuyama they were met by Dr. Ishida, who had brought with him a train of packhorses, fresh supplies of soft paper and silk wadding, as well as herbs and salves. Under his care many men who would otherwise have died recovered, and though Ishida would make no promises to Shigeko, she began to have a faint seed of hope that Hiroshi might be among them.
Ishida’s mood was grim, his thoughts obviously elsewhere. When he was not occupied with the wounded, he liked to walk next to the kirin. Its progress was slow. It was obviously ailing—its dung was almost liquid and its bones stood out like knobs. It was as gentle as ever, and it seemed to enjoy Ishida’s company.
Shigeko learned of her little brother’s death and her mother apparently driven out of her mind by grief; she longed to return to the Middle Country to be with her father. She was also profoundly concerned for the twins. Ishida said he had seen Miki in Hagi, but no one knew where Maya was. After a week in Inuyama, Ishida also declared that he had to go to Hofu, for he could not rest for thinking about his wife, Shizuka.
Yet they had no news, and without news it seemed foolish to risk traveling on. They did not know who held the port of Hofu, where Zenko was with his forces, or how far Kahei had advanced on his journey home.
The kirin, anyway, could travel no farther, and Hiroshi could only benefit from remaining in the city while he grew stronger. Shigeko resigned herself to staying in Inuyama until some word came from her father. She begged Ishida to remain with her and help her care for the wounded and the kirin, and he reluctantly agreed. Shigeko was grateful, for his company as much as anything. She made him relate all he knew to Minoru and made sure all the events, somber as they were, were recorded.
The moon of the eighth month was in its first quarter when messengers finally came, but neither they nor their letters were what she had expected.
They came by ship from Akashi and bore the crest of Saga Hideki on their robes, acted with great deference and humility, and asked to speak to Lady Maruyama herself. Shigeko was astonished—she had last seen their lord blinded by her arrow. If she had expected anything from him, it would have been a warship. She became aware of her looks for the first time in weeks, bathed and had her long hair washed, and borrowed elegant robes from her aunt Ai, for all her finery had been abandoned on the way back from the capital. She received the men in the audience room of the castle residence; they had brought many gifts, and letters written by Saga Hideki himself.
Shigeko welcomed them gracefully, hiding her embarrassment. “I trust Lord Saga is in good health,” she inquired. They assured her that he had recovered from his battle wound; the sight of his left eye was gone, but otherwise his health was as good as ever.
She gave orders that the men should be entertained with as much lavish ceremony as possible. Then she retired to read what Lord Saga had written to her. He must be making some threat, she thought, or seeking retribution. However, the tone of the letter was quite different, warm and respectful.
He wrote that he deeply regretted his attack on Lord Otori. He felt the only strategy for a satisfactory outcome was for the threats to the Otori from the Arai to be eliminated; marriage between himself and Lady Maruyama would ensure that. If she agreed to a betrothal, he would dispatch his forces immediately to fight alongside Lord Otori and his great commander Miyoshi Kahei. He made no mention of his wounds. When she had finished the letter, she felt, along with her astonishment and her anger, something akin to admiration. He had hoped to gain control of the Three Countries first by threats, then by subterfuge, and finally by force, she realized. He had been defeated in one battle, but he had not given up. Far from it—he was preparing for another attack, but he had changed tactics.
She returned to the audience room and told the visitors that she would write a reply to Lord Saga the following day. After they had retired, she went to the room where Hiroshi lay near the open doors, looking out onto the garden. The scents and sounds of the summer night filled the air. She knelt beside him. He was awake.
“Are you in pain?” she said quietly.
He made a slight sideways movement of his head, but she knew he was lying—she could see how thin he had become, his skin taut and yellow over his bones.
“Ishida tells me I will not die, this time,” Hiroshi said. “But he cannot promise that I will ever have full use of my legs again. I doubt I will ever ride a horse, or be much use in battle.”
“I hope we never have to fight such a battle again,” Shigeko said. She took his hand; it lay between hers, as frail and dry as an autumn leaf. “You are still feverish.”
“Only slightly. It is a hot night.”
Her eyes filled with tears suddenly.
“I am not going to die,” he said again. “Don’t weep for me. I will return to Terayama and devote myself truly to the Way of the Houou. I cannot believe that we failed—we must have made some mistake, overlooked something.”
His voice trailed away, and she could see that he had slipped into some other world. His eyes closed.
“Hiroshi,” she said in alarm.
His hand moved and closed over hers. She felt the pressure of his fingers; his pulse was beating, faint but regular. She said, not knowing if he heard or not, “Lord Saga has written, suggesting again that I should marry him.”
Hiroshi smiled very slightly. “Of course you will marry him.”
“I have not yet decided,” she replied. She sat holding his hand all night, while he drifted in and out of sleep. They talked from time to time, about horses and their childhood in Hagi. She fe
lt she was saying good-bye to him, that they would never be this close again. They were like the wandering stars in the sky that seemed to approach each other and then were swung apart by the inexorable movement of heaven. From this night on, their trajectories would take them away from each other, though they would never cease to feel the invisible attraction.
AS IF IN answer to her unspoken bargain, it was the kirin that died. Ishida, utterly distraught, came to tell Shigeko the following afternoon.
“It had been improving,” he said. “I thought it had turned the corner. But it lay down in the night and could not get up again. The poor, poor creature. I wish I had never brought it here.”
“I must go to it,” Shigeko said, and went with Ishida to the stables by the water meadow, where an enclosure had been constructed. She, too, felt an overwhelming grief at the death of the beautiful, gentle animal. When she saw it, huge and ungainly in death, its long-lashed eyes dulled and filled with dust, she was seized by a terrible sense of premonition.
“It is the end of everything,” she said to Ishida. “The kirin appears when the ruler is just and the realm peaceful; its death must mean all that is gone.”
“It was only an animal,” Ishida replied. “Unusual and marvelous, but not mythical.”
Yet Shigeko could not rid herself of the conviction that her father was dead.
She touched the soft coat, which had regained some of its sheen, and remembered Saga’s words.
“He will get what he wanted,” she said aloud. She gave orders for the animal to be skinned, and for its hide to be cured. She would send it, along with her answer, to Lord Saga.
She went to her apartment and asked for writing materials. When the servants returned, Minoru accompanied them. For the last few days she had felt he wanted to speak to her in private, but there had been no opportunity. Now he knelt before her and held out a scroll.