Authors: Lian Hearn
“But can you teach it to the horses?”
Sesshin did not reply, but arranged himself, cross-legged on the ground, pulling the blanket around him.
After tethering the horses securely, Shika sat down next to him.
Sesshin said, “I sat under a waterfall for seven days and seven nights. The water entered my body and entered my bones and then my soul. I can call on it at any time.” His voice droned on while within Shika thirst began to build unbearably. His throat burned, his mouth dried out, his lips were stretched taut and parched.
“Come close to me and place your mouth on mine,” Sesshin said quietly.
Shika did so and a gush of cool water rushed into him, spilling over his lips.
I am dreaming,
he thought,
I will awaken soon and be thirstier than ever.
The flow of water stopped, his thirst was slaked, and suddenly sleep overwhelmed him.
The next morning, Sesshin was lethargic and feverish.
“I should not have done that,” he said, rambling a little.
“The water thing? Can you do it again?”
“Not for a while. You can see how it’s weakened me.”
“Then we must ride on.”
“Let’s rest for a day or two until I get some strength back.”
Shika studied the old man. “I’ll take the horses up to the falls while you rest here. I’ll come back.”
“Very well. I won’t be going anywhere.”
Before he left he made a pile of firewood so Sesshin could keep the fire alight. It was a steep climb up the ridge and took most of the day. Once he and the horses had reached the top and could see across the valleys, Shika realized where he was. The waterfall fell down the opposite cliff face, and the stream it formed flowed south toward Kumayama, his childhood home. To the north, beyond the mountains that lay in folds, violet in the evening light, was Shisoku’s place. That would certainly be a refuge, but to get there he would have to fall down the cliff again. Still, knowing where he was made him feel better.
The horses caught the scent of water and began to scramble down the slope, crashing through the bushes and slipping on boulders. Shika clung to Nyorin’s back, trusting him not to stumble.
Spray filled the air and the roar of the falls drowned out all other noise. The horses drank steadily. It was bitterly cold despite the winter sun, which had broken through the cloud cover and shone for a short while before dropping behind the mountains in the west. He would not get back before dark. The only vessel he had to carry water was the small bamboo flask. He found some roots of water plants, and a crab under a stone, and ate them both raw. Risu lay down and he settled beside her, his head on her belly. All night he was tormented by the idea of cutting her throat and drinking the warm blood. In the morning she looked at him reproachfully as though she knew what he was thinking.
He mounted Nyorin and set off back over the ridge. He shot and wounded a hare on the slope and spent some time tracking it down. It took longer to get back and darkness overtook him again before he came to the clearing. He could smell the smoke and see the flames. His heart swelled with relief. If the fire was still alight, Sesshin was probably still alive.
The old man stirred at Shika’s approach but did not seem able to speak. Shika dripped some water into his mouth and set about skinning the hare. After feeding Sesshin he held him in his arms all night, trying to keep him warm. In the morning he seemed a little better, but still could not move.
The next day Shika let the horses go, still saddled, for there was no way he could carry their harness. He and Sesshin could share the water he had brought if they rationed themselves, but the horses had to drink. They grazed in the clearing for a while, keeping an eye on him, and then they wandered away. For a while he heard the noise of their progress through the woods, then silence returned. He hoped they would wait for him at the waterfall, but he couldn’t help fearing he would not see them again.
Sesshin slowly recovered. Shika lost count of the days, but one afternoon Sesshin said, “I am sorry to have to tell you this, but someone is following us, guided by werehawks.”
Shika listened, but could hear nothing beyond the usual sounds of the forest. A wood pigeon was calling monotonously and the wind rustled the beeches.
“How can you tell?”
“I heard twigs break, and the cry of the birds.”
“How could you? I can’t hear anything, with younger and sharper ears.”
“Once I underwent a ritual that was meant to give me farsight, so I could see into distant places. It failed, for reasons connected with the nature of light, but when I recovered I found my hearing had increased a hundredfold. It was something of a burden—you may have noticed I used to plug my ears with wax—but now I am blind, it will prove very useful. This is why you should never concern yourself over your fate; everything follows the laws of destiny and therefore happens for a purpose.”
“So, are we going to let this person, whoever it is, capture us, or is it our fate to escape?”
“I think we should make every effort not to be taken by one of the Prince Abbot’s monks,” Sesshin said, struggling to his feet. “I don’t relish that prospect at all.”
“But can you walk?”
“I will lean on your shoulder.”
They made a slow, painful progress up the slope toward the top of the ridge. Shika could see where the horses had been before them, the broken branches where they had torn at leaves, their hoofprints in the soft earth. When they came to the summit he spotted Nyorin’s white coat through the leaves below. They had found their way down to the waterfall and were still there. His heart filled with joy, and he let out a loud whistle. Nyorin whinnied in reply, echoed by the mare.
A bird shrieked above him.
“Hurry,” Sesshin said. “They are here.”
Pulling the old man after him, Shika half-slid, half-scrambled down the slope. The birds swooped over his head twice, then circled away, calling loudly. When they reached the bottom, Sesshin was trembling with fatigue. The horses trotted up to them, happy to see Shika. Risu’s saddle had slipped around her belly and Nyorin had broken his reins. Shika quickly righted the saddle and lifted Sesshin onto the mare’s back. He knotted the stallion’s reins as best he could and swung himself up. There was no other way to go but downstream toward his old home, and in truth an irresistible longing had come over him to set eyes on it once more, before fleeing farther into the mountains.
The valley widened and slowly signs of human life began to appear. Irrigation ditches ran into small fields that lay fallow under vegetable waste and manure. In every corner stood trees, leafless now, but he knew each one, peach, loquat, mulberry. Smoke hung in the still air and its woody scent brought tears to his eyes. Not until this moment had he realized how much he had missed it all. His heart was thick with emotion and it made him careless.
“Look out!” Sesshin cried, at the same time as Shika heard the arrow whistling toward him and the shriek of the werehawks as they dived at his head. He pulled Risu close, dropped the lead rein, and sent her forward with a slap on her rump, then plucked an arrow from the quiver, brought Nyorin to a halt, and spun around. One of the werehawks raked his cheek with its beak, drawing blood.
A man was riding toward him, bow drawn, shouting in a voice so loud it echoed around the valley.
“I am the warrior monk Gessho, from Ryusonji! In the name of the Prince Abbot, surrender yourselves to me. I am commanded to bring you to him.”
Shika tried to shoot toward him, but the werehawks flapped around his head, obscuring his sight; one seized the arrow in its claws and flew away with it. Nyorin, alarmed by the birds, gave a huge buck and bolted after Risu.
Another arrow whistled past Shika’s head. They came to a fork in the track; the horses turned to the left and galloped into a group of armed men, led by Shika’s uncle, Sademasa.
* * *
Sademasa recognized him at once, Shika was sure. His uncle’s face, beneath the elaborate horned helmet, paled as if he had seen a ghost. He thought the men also knew who he was, but they surrounded him with drawn swords, and he was afraid they would kill him and Sesshin without asking any questions.
“Uncle,” he called out, as he calmed Nyorin. “It is I, Kazumaru.” He reached out for Risu’s rein and spoke softly to her. Both horses were breathing heavily. Sesshin turned his bandaged eyes toward the voices, listening carefully.
“My nephew is dead,” Sademasa replied. “Who are you, imposter, and how dare you ride up to me with such an outrageous claim?”
“You know who I am. You were there when I fell off the mountain a year ago. Lord Kiyoyori took me into his service.”
“If you serve the Kuromori lord what are you doing here with this sightless beggar?”
Above their heads the werehawks were shrieking in triumph. The monk, who had named himself as Gessho, rode up, shouting. “Lower your swords. Do not harm these men. My lord, I am under orders from the Prince Abbot of Ryusonji to bring them directly to him, alive.”
One of Sademasa’s men said, “He does look like Kazumaru. What if it is him?” Shika knew him; his name was Naganori.
“Maybe he is a shape-shifter,” Gessho declared, “who can take on the likeness of anyone, even the dead.”
“I don’t need to be a shape-shifter,” Shika said. “I am Kazumaru. Naganori, I remember you. Your son, Nagatomo, was my friend.”
The man’s face lit up. “Lord Kazumaru…” he began, but Sademasa rode his horse forward, barging between Shika and Naganori, and addressed Gessho. “You can take them away. I’ll send men with you to make sure they don’t escape. As long as you remind your master of this service I am rendering him.”
“You will indeed be rewarded,” Gessho replied. “And even more if you provide us with shelter. It is too late to ride on today. Let us rest at your house and we will leave in the morning.”
Shika glanced at Sesshin. If he had given one sign, made one gesture, Shika would have fought, no matter that he was outnumbered twenty to one. But Sesshin sat on the mare’s back, calm and patient, as the warriors took the reins and led them away.
It was painful to return as a prisoner to his own home and to be shut in the guardroom, just inside the gate, where he had seen so many await punishment. Everything was taken from them, his bow and arrows, and the brocade bag that held the mask, which Gessho, who seemed reluctant to let his captives out of his sight, received with delight and awe and said many prayers over.
“This will please my master,” he exclaimed, opening it enough to peer inside.
“What is it?” Sademasa said, curious, but Gessho would not show him.
Until then Shika had kept his feelings under control, but when the mask was taken from him he flew into a rage just as he used to when he was a boy. It took three men to restrain him. He was still raging when the guard returned with a bowl of gruel, and would have thrown it in the man’s face, but Sesshin’s voice calmed him. “It is food. Eat. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“None of this is what I wanted,” he said, but he ate the gruel. He lay awake all night, vowing he would take revenge on his uncle and reclaim what was his.
* * *
There was no sign of the horses when they were brought out next morning, and Shika was afraid he would never see them again. The rage that he had kept simmering all night threatened to erupt once more. His uncle had stolen everything from him, even his horses.
Gessho said, “Bring the horses. The prisoners can ride the mare, and the stallion will make a fine gift for my lord, the Prince Abbot.”
Sademasa, who had come out to bid farewell to the monk, said, “We cannot get near them. One of my men has been bitten on the arm and another kicked in the head. I will have them killed. They will feed my men through the winter.”
“Untie the young prisoner,” Gessho said, after a moment’s thought. “Walk with me to the stables,” he said quietly to Shika.
A group of men followed them, bows ready, swords drawn.
“Don’t try to escape,” Gessho said under his breath. “Sademasa will seize any pretext to kill you.”
Shika realized it was less a threat than a warning. He looked at the warrior monk, seeing him properly for the first time. He was tall and broad shouldered, with well-shaped features and almost copper-colored skin. He carried a rattan-bound bow and a quiver of arrows fletched with black-banded eagle feathers. He had a long sword at his hip. Even if Shika had his own bow, and the mask, he did not think he could take on a man the size of Gessho.
The horses had been left in a small fenced area. The ground was churned up by their hoofs and they were wild eyed and sweating despite the cold. They whinnied in relief at the sight of Shika. They were both still saddled and bridled from the previous night, and though they had been given food and water, they had been too agitated to eat. Shika ran his hand over the stallion’s flanks. He had lost weight during their flight over the mountains and his mane was tangled, his coat dirty.
He led Nyorin forward and Risu followed docilely, her head at Shika’s shoulder.
Sademasa’s men encircled them, but Gessho had his hand on his sword and they fell back to let them through. Shika hoisted the old man onto Risu’s back and then looked at Gessho.
“You may as well ride the stallion,” the monk said. “Since it seems no one else can. But I will tie him to my horse.”
“Where are the werehawks?” Shika said, looking up. The clouds had cleared and the sun was shining from a pale sky.
“I sent them back to the capital,” Gessho replied. “My lord Abbot will know I have accomplished my task and will dispatch men to meet us.”
Shika’s heart twisted as they rode away from his home. No one looked at him, no one recognized him as the young lord of Kumayama. Yet he knew every tree, the pattern of their winter shadows, the outline of the mountains rising one behind the other, ever higher, to the snowcapped peaks, sharp and gleaming in the frosty air—they were all as familiar as his own hands.
At the boundary of his land Gessho told Sademasa’s men to return home. They obeyed him—he was the sort of man, Shika realized, that would always be obeyed; as well as his gigantic build and strength he had powerful spiritual authority. After they had gone, Gessho said, “Lord Sademasa seems eager to get rid of you. Why should he be, unless your claim is true? That’s what I’ve been asking myself.”