Grass for His Pillow (25 page)

“You should have woken me.”

“I feel rested. I need very little sleep.” He said curiously, “Why don't you ever look at me?”

“I might send you to sleep. It's one of the Tribe skills I inherited. I should be able to control it, but I've put people to sleep without meaning to. So I don't look them in the eye.”

“You mean there's more than just the hearing? What else?”

“I can make myself invisible—for long enough to confuse an opponent or slip past a guard. And I can seem to remain in a place after I've left it or to be in two places at once. We call it using the second self.” I watched him without appearing to as I said this, for I was interested in his reaction.

He could not help recoiling slightly. “Sounds more like a demon than an angel,” he muttered. “Can all these people, the Tribe, do this?”

“Different people have different skills. I seem to have inherited many more than my share.”

“I knew nothing about the Tribe, did not even know they existed, until our abbot spoke of you and your connection with them, after your visit in the summer.”

“Many think the skills are sorcery,” I said.

“Are they?”

“I don't know, because I don't know how I do them. The skills came to me. I did not seek them. But training enhances them.”

“I suppose like any skills they can be used for good or evil,” he said quietly.

“Well, the Tribe want only to use them for their own purposes,” I said. “Which is why they will not let me live. If you come with me, you will be in the same danger. Are you prepared for that?”

He nodded. “Yes, I'm prepared. Doesn't it alarm you, though? It would make most men weak with fear.”

I did not know how to answer. I have often been described as fearless, but that seems too fine a word for a state that is more like invisibility, a gift I was born with. And fearlessness only comes on me from time to time, and then takes energy to maintain. I know fear as well as any man. I didn't want to think about it then. I stood and took up my clothes. They were not really dry, and they felt clammy against my skin as I put them on. I went outside to piss. The air was raw and damp, but the snow had stopped, and what lay on the ground was slushy. There were no footprints around the hut and shrine save my own, already half-covered. The track disappeared downhill. It was passable. The mountain and the forest were silent, apart from the wind. Far in the distance I could hear crows, and a little closer some smaller bird piped in a mournful way. I could hear no sound of human existence, no ax on trunk, no temple bell, no village dog. The shrine spring made a low, welling sound. I washed my face and hands in the icy black water and drank deeply.

That was all the breakfast we had. Makoto packed his few possessions, tucked the flutes into his belt, and picked up the fighting pole. It was his only weapon. I gave him the short sword I'd taken
from my assailant the day before, and he placed it next to the flutes in his belt.

As we set out, a few flakes of snow were drifting down, and they continued to fall all morning. The path, however, was not too thickly covered, and Makoto of course knew the way well. Every now and then I slipped on an icy patch or stepped in a hole up to my knees. Soon my clothes were as wet as they'd been the night before. The path was narrow; we went in single file at a fair pace, hardly speaking. Makoto seemed to have no words left, and I was too busy listening—for the breath, the broken stick, the thrum of bowstring, the whistle of throwing knife. I felt like a wild animal, always in danger, always hunted.

The light paled to pearl gray, stayed like that for three hours or so, then began to darken. The flakes fell more heavily, beginning to swirl and settle. Around noon we stopped to drink from a small stream, but as soon as we stopped walking the cold attacked us, so we did not linger.

“This is the North River, which flows past the temple,” Makoto said. “We follow its course all the way. It's less than two hours now.”

It seemed so much easier than my journey since I'd left Hagi. I almost began to relax. Terayama was only two hours away. I had a companion. We were going to get to the temple, and I would be safe for the winter. But the babbling of the river drowned out all other sound, and so I had no warning of the men who were waiting for us.

There were two of them, and they came at us out of the forest like wolves. But they were anticipating one man—me—and Makoto's presence surprised them. They saw what they thought was a harmless monk and went for him first, expecting him to run
away. He dropped the first man with a blow to the head that must have cracked the skull. The second man had a long sword, which surprised me, as the Tribe do not usually carry them. I went invisible as he swung at me, came up under his reach, and slashed at his sword hand, trying to disable him. The knife glanced off his glove. I stabbed again and let my image appear at his feet. The second stab went home, and blood began to drip from his right wrist as he swung again. My second self faded and I, still invisible, leaped on him, trying to slash him in the throat, wishing I had Jato and could fight him properly. He could not see me, but he grabbed at my arms and cried out in horror. I felt myself becoming visible, and he realized it at the same time. He stared into my face as if he saw a ghost, his eyes widening in terror and then beginning to waver, as Makoto struck him from behind, cracking the pole against his neck. He went down like an ox, taking me down with him.

I scrambled out from beneath him and pulled Makoto into the shelter of the rocks, in case there were more of them on the hillside. What I feared most were bowmen who could pick us off from afar. But the forest grew too thickly here to be able to use a bow from any distance. There was no sign of anyone else.

Makoto was breathing hard, his eyes bright. “I realize now what you meant about your skills.”

“You're pretty skillful yourself! Thanks.”

“Who are they?”

I went to the two bodies. The first man was Kikuta—I could tell from his hands—but the second wore the Otori crest under his armor.

“This one is a warrior,” I said, gazing at the heron. “That explains the sword. The other is from the Tribe—Kikuta.”

I did not know the man, but we had to be relatives, linked by the lines on our palms.

The Otori warrior made me nervous. Had he come from Hagi? What was he doing with one of the Tribe's assassins? It seemed to be common knowledge that I was heading for Terayama. My thoughts flew to Ichiro. I prayed they had not extracted the information from him. Or was it Jo-An or one of the impoverished men I'd feared would betray me? Maybe these men had already been to the temple and there would be more of them waiting for us there.

“You completely disappeared,” Makoto said. “I could only see your prints in the snow. It's extraordinary.” He grinned at me, his face transformed. It was hard to believe he was the same person as the despairing flute player of the previous night. “It's been a while since I've had a decent fight. It's amazing how a brush with death makes life so beautiful.”

The snow seemed whiter and the cold more piercing. I was terribly hungry, yearning for the comforts of the senses, a scalding bath, food, wine, a lover's body naked against mine.

We went on with renewed energy. We needed it; in the last hour or so the wind increased and the snow began to fall heavily again. I had reason to become even more grateful to Makoto, for by the end we were walking blind; yet he knew the path and never faltered. Since I had last been to the temple, a wooden wall had been erected around the main buildings, and at the gate guards challenged us. Makoto replied and they welcomed him excitedly. They had been anxious for him and were relieved that he had decided to return.

After they had barred the gate again and we were inside the guardroom, they looked searchingly at me, not sure if they knew
me or not. Makoto said, “Lord Otori Takeo is seeking refuge here for the winter. Will you inform our abbot that he is here?”

One of them hurried away across the courtyard, his figure, bowed against the wind, turning white before he reached the cloister. The great roofs of the main halls were already capped with snow, the bare branches of cherry and plum trees heavy with the blossom of winter.

The guards beckoned us to sit by the fire. Like Makoto, they were young monks, their weapons bows, spears, and poles. They poured us tea. Nothing had ever tasted quite as good to me. The tea and our clothes steamed together, creating a comforting warmth. I tried to fight it; I did not want to relax yet.

“Has anyone come here looking for me?”

“Strangers were noticed on the mountain early this morning. They skirted the temple and went on up into the forest. We had no idea they were looking for you. We were a little concerned for Makoto—we thought they might be bandits—but the weather was too bad to send anyone out. Lord Otori has arrived at a good time. The way you came down is already impassable. The temple will be closed now till spring.”

“It is an honor for us that you have returned,” one of them said shyly, and the glances they exchanged told me they had a fair idea of the significance of my appearance.

After ten minutes or so the monk came hurrying back. “Our abbot welcomes Lord Otori,” he said, “and asks that you will bathe and eat. He would like to speak with you when the evening prayers are finished.”

Makoto finished his tea, bowed formally to me, and said he must get ready for evening prayers, as though he had spent the
whole day in the temple with the other monks, not slogging through a blizzard and killing two men. His manner was cool and formal. I knew beneath it lay the heart of a true friend, but here he was one of the monks, while I had to relearn how to be a lord. The wind howled around the gables; the snow drifted relentlessly down. I had come in safety to Terayama. The winter was mine to reshape my life.

I was taken to one of the temple guest rooms by the young man who'd brought the abbot's message. In spring and summer these rooms would have been full of visitors and pilgrims, but now they were deserted. Even though the outer shutters were closed against the storm, it was bitterly cold. The wind moaned through the chinks in the wall, and through some of the larger ones snow drifted. The same monk showed me the way to the small bathhouse built above a hot spring. I took off my wet, filthy clothes and scrubbed myself all over. Then I eased my body into the hot water. It was even better than I'd imagined it would be. I thought of the men who had tried to kill me in the last two days and was fiercely glad I was alive. The water steamed and bubbled around me. I felt a rush of gratitude for it, that it should well up out of the mountain, bathe my aching body, and unthaw my frozen limbs. I thought about mountains, which were just as likely to spit out ash and fire or shake their sides and throw buildings around like kindling, and make men feel as helpless as the insects that crawl from burning logs. This mountain could have gripped me and frozen me to death, but instead it had given me this scalding water.

My arms were bruised from the warrior's grip, and there was a long, shallow cut on my neck where his sword must have grazed me. My right wrist, which had bothered me on and off ever
since Akio had bent it backward, in Inuyama, tearing the tendons, now felt stronger. My body seemed more spare than ever, but otherwise I was in good shape after the journey. And now I was clean too.

I heard footsteps in the room beyond, and the monk called out that he had brought dry clothes and some food. I emerged from the water, my skin bright red from the heat, rubbed myself dry on the rags left there for that purpose, and ran back along the boardwalk through the snow to the room.

It was empty. The clothes lay on the floor: clean loincloth, quilted undergarments, silken outer robe, also quilted, and sash. The robe was a dark plum color woven with a deeper pattern of purple, the Otori crest in silver on the back. I put it on slowly, relishing the touch of the silk. It had been a long time since I had worn anything of this quality. I wondered why it was at the temple and who had left it here. Had it been Shigeru's? I felt his presence envelop me. The first thing I would do in the morning would be to visit his grave. He would tell me how to achieve revenge.

The smell of the food made me realize how famished I was. The meal was more substantial than anything I'd had for days, and it took me just two minutes to devour it. Then, not wanting to lose the heat from the bath or to fall asleep, I went through some exercises, ending with meditation.

Beyond the wind and the snow I could hear the monks chanting from the main hall of the temple. The snowy night, the deserted room with its memories and ghosts, the serene words of the ancient sutras, all combined to produce an exquisite bittersweet sensation. My spine chilled. I wished I could express it, wished I had paid more attention when Ichiro had tried to teach me poetry. I longed
to hold the brush in my hand: If I could not express my feelings in words, perhaps I could paint them.

“Come back to us,” the old priest had said, “When all this is over. . . .” Part of me wished I could do that and spend the rest of my days in this tranquil place. But I remembered how even here I had overheard plans of war; the monks were armed and the temple fortified now. It was far from over; indeed it was only just begun.

The chanting came to an end and I heard the soft pad of feet as the monks filed away to eat, then sleep for a few hours until the bell roused them at midnight. Footsteps approached the room from the cloister, and the same monk came to the door and slid it open. He bowed to me and said, “Lord Otori, our abbot wishes to see you now.”