The Harsh Cry of the Heron (72 page)

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 he 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 heads 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 towards 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 dream-like 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.

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 have otherwise 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 travelling 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 further, 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, sombre 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,’ 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.’

T 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 tailed
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 felt she was saying goodbye 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 marvellous, 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.

‘Lady Maruyama’s
father commanded me to put this into her hands,’ he said quietly. When she had
taken it he bowed to the ground before her, the first person to honour her as
ruler of the Three Countries.

From Kubo Makoto, to
Lady Otori.

I wanted to tell you
myself about the last days of your husband’s life.

It is nearly autumn
here in the mountains. The nights are cool. Two nights ago I heard the hawk owl
in the graveyard, but last night it had gone. It has flown south. The leaves
are beginning to turn: soon we will have the first frosts, and then the snow.

Takeo came to the
temple with Miyoshi Gemba at the beginning of the eighth month; I was relieved
to see him alive, for we had heard of the destruction of Hagi and Zenko’s
advance on Yamagata. It seemed obvious to me that no attack on the Middle
Country could succeed while Takeo lived, and I knew Zenko would try to have him
murdered as soon as possible.

It was in the middle
of the day. He and Gemba had ridden from Yamagata. It was a very hot day; they
had not come in haste, but in a rather leisurely fashion, like pilgrims. They
were tired, obviously, and Takeo was a little feverish, but they were not
desperate and exhausted as fugitives might be. He told me little about his
meeting with you, the previous night. These matters lie between husband and
wife, and outsiders cannot interfere. All I can say is that I am truly sorry,
but not surprised. Passionate love does not die away, but turns to other
passions, hatred, jealousy, disappointment. Between man and wife it can only be
dangerous. I had made my feelings on this clear to Takeo many times.