I was devastated. Was I to lose everyone I loved? I turned away to hide my feelings.
“When I thought you were dying, I made a vow,” Makoto went on. “I promised the Enlightened One that if you lived, I would devote my life to your cause in a different way. I’ve fought and killed alongside you and I would do it gladly all over again. Except that it solves nothing, in the end. Like the weasel’s dance, the cycle of violence goes on and on.”
His words rang in my ears. They were exactly what had pounded in my brain while I was delirious.
“You talked in your fever about your father and about the command of the Hidden, to take no one’s life. As a warrior, it’s hard for me to understand, but as a monk it is a command that I feel I must try and follow. I vowed that night that I would never kill again. Instead, I will seek peace through prayer and meditation. I left my flutes at Terayama to take up weapons. I will leave my weapons here and go back for them.”
He smiled slightly. “When I speak the words, they sound like madness. I am taking the first step only on a long and difficult journey, but it is one I must make.”
I said nothing in reply. I pictured the temple at Terayama where Shigeru and Takeshi were buried, where I had been sheltered and nurtured, where Kaede and I had been married. It lay in the center of the Three Countries, the physical and spiritual heart of my land and my life. And from now on Makoto would be there, praying for the peace I longed for, always upholding my cause. He would be one person, like a tiny splash of dye in a huge vat, but I could see the color spreading over the years, the blue-green color that the word peace always summoned up for me. Under Makoto’s influence the temple would become a place of peace, as its founder had intended it to be.
“I am not leaving you,” he said gently. “I will be with you in a different way.”
I had no words to express my gratitude: He had understood my conflict completely and in this way was taking the first steps to resolve it. All I could do was thank him and let him go.
Kenji, supported tacitly by Chiyo, argued strongly against my decision to travel, saying I was asking for trouble by undertaking such a journey before I was fully recovered. I felt better every day and my hand had mostly healed, though it still pained me and I still felt my phantom fingers. I grieved for the loss of all my dexterity and tried to accustom my left hand to the sword and the brush, but at least I held a horse’s reins in that hand and I thought I was well enough to ride. My main concern was that I was needed in the reconstruction of Hagi, but Miyoshi Kahei and his father assured me they could manage without me. Kahei and the rest of my army had been delayed with Makoto by the earthquake but were unharmed by it. Their arrival had greatly increased our forces and hastened the town’s recovery. I told Kahei to send messages as soon as possible to Shuho, to invite the master carpenter Shiro and his family back to the clan.
In the end Kenji gave in and said, despite the considerable pain of his broken ribs, he would of course accompany me, since I’d shown myself unable to deal with Kotaro alone. I forgave him his sarcasm, glad to have him with me, and we took Taku as well, not wanting to leave him behind while he was so low in spirits. He and Hiroshi squabbled as usual, but Hiroshi had grown more patient and Taku less arrogant and I could see a true friendship was developing between them. I also took as many men as we could spare from the town and left them in groups along the road to help rebuild the stricken villages and farms. The earthquake had cut a swath from north to south and we followed its line. It was close to midwinter; despite the loss and destruction, people were getting ready for the New Year’s celebration; their lives were starting again.
The days were frosty but clear; the landscape bare and wintering. Snipe called from the marshes, and the colors were gray and muted. We rode directly south and in the evenings the sun sank red in the West, the only color in a dulled world. The nights were intensely cold with huge stars, and every morning was white with frost.
I knew Makoto was keeping some secret from me, but could not tell if it was to be a happy one or not. Every day he seemed to shine more with some inner anticipation. My own spirits were still volatile. I was pleased to be riding Shun again, but the cold and the hardship of the journey, together with the pain and disability in my hand, were more draining than I had thought they would be, and at night the task in front of me seemed too immense for me ever to achieve, especially if I was to attempt it without Kaede.
On the seventh day we came to Shirakawa. The sky had clouded over and the whole world seemed gray. Kaede’s home was in ruins and deserted. The house had burned and there was nothing left of it but charred beams and ashes. It looked unutterably mournful; I imagined Fujiwara’s residence would look the same. I had a serious premonition that she was dead and that Makoto was taking me to her grave. A shrike scolded us from the burned trunk of a tree by the gate, and in the rice fields two crested ibis were feeding, their pink plumage glowing in the forlorn landscape. However, as we rode away past the water meadows Hiroshi called to me: “Lord Otori! Look!”
Two brown mares were trotting toward us, whinnying to our horses. They both had foals at foot, three months old, I reckoned, their brown baby hair just beginning to give way to gray. They had manes and tails as black as lacquer.
“They are Raku’s colts!” Hiroshi said. “Amano told me that the Shirakawa mares were in foal to him.”
I could not stop looking at them. They seemed like an inexpressibly precious gift from heaven, from life itself, a promise of renewal and rebirth.
“One of them will be yours,” I said to Hiroshi. “You deserve it for your loyalty to me.”
“Can the other one go to Taku?” Hiroshi begged.
“Of course!”
The boys yelped with delight. I told the grooms to bring the mares with us and the foals gamboled after them, cheering me enormously as we followed Hiroshi’s lead, riding along the Shirakawa to the sacred caves.
I had never been there before and was unprepared for the size of the cavern from which the river flowed. The mountain loomed above, already snowcapped, reflected in the still black water of the winter river. Here if anywhere I could see, drawn by the hand of nature, the truth that it was all one. Earth, water, and sky lay together in unbroken harmony. It was like the moment at Terayama when I had been given a glimpse into the heart of truth; now I saw heaven’s nature revealed by earth.
There was a small cottage at the river’s edge just before the bird-perch gates of the shrine. An old man came out at the sound of the horses, smiled in recognition at Makoto and Hiroshi, and bowed to us.
“Welcome, sit down, I’ll make you some tea. Then I’ll call my wife.”
“Lord Otori has come to collect the chests we left here,” Hiroshi said importantly, and grinned at Makoto.
“Yes, yes. I’ll let them know. No man may go inside, but the women will come out to us.”
While he poured us tea, another man came out from the cottage and greeted us. He was middle-aged, kind, and intelligent-looking; I had no idea who he was, though I felt he knew me. He introduced himself to us as Ishida and I gathered he was a doctor. While he talked to us about the history of the caves and the healing properties of the water, the old man went nimbly toward the entrance to the caves, jumping from boulder to boulder. A little way from it a bronze bell hung from a wooden post. He swung the clapper against it and its hollow note boomed over the water, echoing and reverberating from inside the mountain.
I watched the old man and drank the steaming tea. He seemed to be peering and listening. After a few moments he turned and called, “Let Lord Otori only come thus far.”
I put down the bowl and stood up. The sun was just disappearing behind the western slope, and the shadow of the mountain fell on the water. As I followed the old man’s steps and jumped from rock to rock, I thought I could feel something—someone—drawing toward me.
I stood next to the old man, next to the bell. He looked up at me and grinned, a smile of such openness and warmth it nearly bro
ught tears to my eyes.
“Here comes my wife,” he said. “She’ll bring the chests.” He chuckled and went on: “They’ve been waiting for you.”
I could see now into the gloom of the cavern. I could see the old shrine woman, dressed in white. I could hear her footsteps on the wet rock and the tread of the women following her. My blood was pounding in my ears.
As they stepped out into the light, the old woman bowed to the ground and placed the chest at my feet. Shizuka was just behind her, carrying a second chest.
“Lord Otori,” she murmured.
I hardly heard her. I did not look at either of them. I was staring past them at Kaede.
I knew it was her by the shape of her outline, but there was something changed about her. I did not recognize her. She had a cloth over her head and as she came toward me she let it fall to her shoulders.
Her hair was gone, her head shorn.
Her eyes were fixed on mine. Her face was unscarred and as beautiful as ever, but I hardly saw it. I gazed into her eyes, saw what she had suffered, and saw how it had refined and strengthened her. The Kikuta sleep would never touch her again.
Still without speaking, she turned and pulled the cloth from her shoulders. The nape of her neck, which had been so perfect, so white, was layered with scars of red and purple where her hair had burned her flesh.
I placed my damaged hand over it, covering her scars with my own.
We stood like that for a long time. I heard the harsh cry of the heron as it flew to its roost, the endless song of the water, and the quick beating of Kaede’s heart. We were sheltered under the overhang of the rock, and I did not notice that it had started snowing.
When I looked out onto the landscape, it was already turning white as the first snow of winter drifted down upon it.
On the banks of the river the colts were snorting in amazement at the snow, the first they had seen. By the time the snow melted and spring came, their coats would be gray like Raku’s.
I prayed that spring would also bring healing, to our scarred bodies, to our marriage, and to our land. And that spring would see the houou, the sacred bird of legend, return once more to the Three Countries.
AFTER WORD
The Three Countries have enjoyed nearly fifteen years of peace and prosperity. Trade with the mainland and with the barbarians has made us rich. Inuyama, Yamagata, and Hagi have palaces and castles unequaled in the Eight Islands. The court of the Otori, they say, rivals that of the emperor in splendor.
There are always threats—powerful individuals like Arai Zenko within our borders; warlords beyond the Three Countries; the barbarians who would like to have a greater share of our wealth; even the emperor and his court, who fear our rivalry—but until now, the thirty-second year of my life, the fourteenth of my rule, we have been able to control all these with a mixture of strength and diplomacy.
The Kikuta, led by Akio, have never given up their campaign against me, and my body now bears the record of their attempts to kill me. Our struggle against them goes on; we will never eradicate them completely, but the spies I maintain under Kenji and Taku keep them under control.
Both Taku and Zenko are married and have children of their own. Zenko I married to my sister-in-law Hana, in an only partially successful attempt to bind him closer to me in alliance. His father’s death lies between us, and I know he will overthrow me if he can.
Hiroshi lived in my household until he was twenty and then returned to Maruyama, where he holds the domain in trust for my eldest daughter, who will inherit it from her mother.
Kaede and I have three daughters: The eldest is now thirteen, her twin sisters eleven. Our first child looks exactly like her mother and shows no sign of any Tribe skills. The twin girls are identical, even to the Kikuta lines on their palms. People are afraid of them, with reason.
Kenji located my son ten years ago, when the boy was five. Since then we keep an eye on him, but I will not allow anyone to harm him. I have thought long and often about the prophecy, and have come to the conclusion that if this is to be my destiny, I cannot avoid it, and if it is not—for prophecies, like prayers, fulfill themselves in unexpected ways—then the less I try to do about it the better. And I cannot deny that, as the physical pain I suffer increases, and as I remember how I gave my adopted father, Shigeru, the swift and honorable death of a warrior, wiping out the insult and humiliation he had undergone at the hands of Iida Sadamu, the thought often comes to me that my son will bring me release, that death at his hands may be welcome to me.
But my death is another tale of the Otori, and one that cannot be told by me.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I thank the Asialink Foundation, which awarded me a fellowship in 1999 to spend three months in Japan; the Australia Council, the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade, and the Australian Embassy in Tokyo; and ArtsSA, the South Australian Government Arts Department. In Japan, I was sponsored by Yamaguchi Prefecture’s Akiyoshidai International Arts Village, whose staff generously assisted me in exploring the landscape and the history of western Honshuu. Thanks particularly to Mr. Kori Yoshinori, Ms. Matsunaga Yayoi, and Ms. Matsubara Manami. I am especially grateful to Mrs. Tokoriki Masako for showing me the Sesshu paintings and gardens and to her husband, Professor Tokoriki, for information on horses in the medieval period.
Spending time in Japan with two theater companies gave me many insights. Deepest thanks to Kazenoko in Tokyo and Kyushuu, and Gekidan Urinko in Nagoya, and to Ms. Kimura Miyo, a wonderful traveling companion, who accompanied me to Kanazawa and the Nakasendo and who answered my questions about language and literature.
I am indebted to Mr. Morgi Masaru and Mrs. Mogi Akiko for their help with research, their suggestions for names, and above all, their ongoing friendship.
In Australia, I thank my two Japanese teachers, Mrs. Thuy Coombs and Mrs. Etsuko Wilson; Simon Higgins, who made invaluable suggestions; my agent, Jenny Darling; my son Matt, my first reader on all three books; and the rest of my family, for not only putting up with but also sharing my obsessions.
In 2002, I spent a further three months in Japan at the Shuho-cho Cultural Exchange House. Much of my research during this period was useful in the final rewriting of Brilliance of the Moon. My thanks to the people at Shuho-cho, in particular Ms. Santo Yuko and Mark Brachmann, and to Maxine McArthur. Also, again deepest thanks to ArtsSA for a Mid-Career Fellowship.
Calligraphy was drawn for me by Ms. Sugiyama Kazuko and Etsuko Wilson. I am immensely grateful to them.
Lian Hearn, Brilliance of the Moon
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