Grass for His Pillow (20 page)

“It's a steep climb,” Jo-An said. “You must rest a little before you attempt it.”

I began to think about getting to my feet. “I don't have time. I must get to the temple before it snows.”

Jo-An looked up at the sky and sniffed the wind. “It will be too cold to snow tonight, but it could well start tomorrow. We'll ask the Secret One to hold it back.”

He stood and helped me up. “Can you walk now? It's not far back to the place I live. You can rest there, then I'll take you to the men who will show you the way over the mountains.”

I felt faint, as though my body had lost its substance, almost as
though I'd split myself and somehow gone with my image. I was thankful for the Tribe training that had taught me to find those reserves of strength of which most men are unaware. Slowly as I concentrated my breathing I felt some energy and toughness return. Jo-An no doubt attributed my recovery to the power of his prayers. He regarded me for a moment with his deep-sunk eyes, then turned with a flicker of a smile and began to walk back the way we had come.

I hesitated for a moment, partly because I hated the thought of retracing my steps, losing the ground it had cost me so much to cover, but also because I recoiled from going with the outcast. It was one thing to talk with him at night, alone, quite another to walk close to him, to be seen in his company. I reminded myself that I was not yet an Otori lord, and no longer one of the Tribe, that Jo-An was offering me help and shelter, but my skin crawled as I followed him.

After walking for less than an hour we turned off the road onto a smaller path that followed the banks of a narrow river, through a couple of miserable villages. Children ran out to beg for food, but they backed away when they recognized the outcast. In the second village two older boys were bold enough to throw stones. One of them nearly struck me on the back—I heard the blow coming in time to step aside—and I was going to go back and punish the brat, but Jo-An restrained me.

Long before we reached it I could smell the tannery. The river widened and eventually flowed into the main channel. At the confluence stood the rows of wooden frames, skins stretched on them. Here in this damp sheltered spot they were protected from frost, but as winter's bite strengthened they would be taken down and
stored till spring. Men were already at work, all outcasts of course, half-naked despite the cold, all as skeletally thin as Jo-An and with the same beaten look like mistreated dogs. Mist hung on the river, mingled with smoke from charcoal fires. A floating bridge, made of reeds and bamboo lashed together with cords, had been constructed across the river. I remembered Jo-An telling me to come to the outcasts' bridge if I ever needed help. Now some fate had brought me here; he would say the power of the Secret God, no doubt.

On the far side of the frames a few small wooden huts had been erected. They looked as if one strong wind would flatten them. As I followed Jo-An to the threshold of the nearest one, the men continued their work, but I was aware of their gaze. Each one looked at me with a kind of intense entreaty, as though I meant something to them and could help them in some way.

Trying to mask my reluctance, I stepped inside, not needing to remove my shoes as the floor was earthen. A small fire burned in the hearth. The air was thick with smoke, making my eyes sting. There was one other person inside, huddled in the corner, under a pile of hides. I thought it was Jo-An's wife until he came forward on his knees and bowed his head to the dirt before me. It was the man who had ferried me across the river.

“He walked most of the night to tell me he'd seen you,” Jo-An said apologetically. “He needed to rest a little before returning.”

I was aware of the sacrifice it entailed, not only the lonely walk through the goblin-haunted darkness, but the danger from robbers and patrols and the loss of a day's fees.

“Why did he do this for me?”

The boatman sat up then, raising his eyes and looking briefly at
me. He said nothing, but the look he gave me was the same one I'd seen in the gaze of the tannery workers, a look of passion and hunger. I had seen it before, months earlier, on the faces of people as we rode back from Terayama to Yamagata, the look they threw out like an appeal to Shigeru. They had found in Shigeru the promise of something—justice, compassion—and now these men looked for the same thing in me. Whatever Jo-An had told them about me had transformed me into their hope.

And something in me responded to this, just as it had to the villagers, to the farmers with their hidden fields. They were treated like dogs, beaten and starved, but I saw them as men, with the brains and hearts of men, no less than any warrior or merchant. I had been brought up among people like them and been taught that the Secret God saw them all with equal eyes. No matter what I became, no matter what other teaching I received from the Otori or the Tribe—despite my own reluctance, even—it was impossible for me to forget this.

Jo-An said, “He is your man now. As I am—as we all are. You only have to call on us.” He grinned, his broken teeth flashing in the dim light. He had made tea and handed me a small wooden bowl. I felt the steam rise against my face. The tea was made from twigs, such as we used to drink in Mino.

“Why should I call on you? What I'm going to need is an army!” I drank and felt the warmth begin to spread through me.

“Yes, an army,” Jo-An replied. “Many battles lie ahead of you. The prophecy says it.”

“How can you help me, then? It is forbidden for you to kill.”

“Warriors will kill,” Jo-An replied, “but there are many things
they won't do that are equally necessary—things they consider beneath them: building, slaughtering, burying. You'll realize it when you need us.”

The tea settled my stomach. Jo-An brought out two more small millet balls, but I had no appetite and made the boatman eat my share. Jo-An did not eat, either, but put the second ball away again. I saw the other man's eyes follow it and gave him some coins before he left. He did not want to take them, but I pressed them into his hand.

Jo-An mumbled the blessing of departure over him and then pulled aside the hides so I could take his place under them. The warmth of the tea stayed with me. The hides stank, but they kept out the cold and muffled sound. I thought briefly how any one of those starving men might betray me for a bowl of soup, but I had no alternative now: I had to trust Jo-An. I let the darkness fall over me and take me down into sleep.

He woke me a few hours later. It was well after noon. He gave me tea, hardly more than hot water, and apologized for having no food to offer me.

“We should leave now,” he said, “if we are to get to the charcoal burners before dark.”

“The charcoal burners?” I usually woke swiftly, but this day I was groggy with sleep.

“They are still on the mountain. They have paths they use through the forest that will take you over the border. But they will leave with the first snow.” He paused for a moment and then said, “We have to speak to someone on the way.”

“Who?”

“It won't take long.” He gave me one of his slight smiles. We
went outside and I knelt by the riverbank and splashed water on my face. It was icy; as Jo-An had predicted, the temperature had dropped and the air was drier. It was too cold and too dry to snow.

I shook the water from my hands while he spoke to the men. Their eyes flickered toward me. When we left, they stopped work and knelt with bowed heads as I walked past.

“They know who I am?” I asked Jo-An in a low voice. Again, I feared betrayal from these men who had so little.

“They know you are Otori Takeo,” he replied, “the angel of Yamagata who will bring justice and peace. That's what the prophecy says.”

“What prophecy?” I asked again.

He said, “You will hear it for yourself.”

I was filled with misgivings. What was I doing, entrusting my life to this lunatic? I felt every extra moment wasted would keep me from reaching Terayama before either the snow or the Tribe caught up with me. But I realized now that my only hope was to go over the mountain. I had to follow Jo-An.

We crossed the smaller river a little way upstream by a fish weir. We passed few people, a couple of fishermen, and some girls taking food to the men who were burning rice stalks and spreading dung on the empty fields. The girls climbed up the bank rather than cross our path, and one of the fisherman spat at us. The other cursed Jo-An for blighting the water. I kept my head low and my face averted, but they paid no attention to me. In fact they avoided looking at us directly, as though even that contact would bring pollution and bad luck.

Jo-An seemed to take no notice of the hostility, retreating into
himself as if into a dark cloak, but when we had passed them he said, “They would not allow us to use the wooden bridge to take the hides across. That's why we had to learn to build our own. Now the other bridge is destroyed, but they still refuse to use ours.” He shook his head and whispered, “If only they knew the Secret One.”

On the other bank we followed the river for another mile and then turned off toward the northeast and began to climb. The bare-branched maples and beeches gave way to pines and cedars. As the forest deepened, the path darkened and grew steeper and steeper until we were clambering over rocks and boulders, going as often on all fours as upright. The sleep had refreshed me and I could feel strength returning. Jo-An climbed tirelessly, hardly even panting. It was hard to guess his age. Poverty and suffering had hollowed him out so he looked like an old man, but he might have been no more than thirty. There was something unearthly about him, as though he had indeed returned from the dead.

We finally came over a crest and stood on a small plateau. A huge rock lay across it, fallen from the crag above. Below us I could see the glint of the river, almost as far as Tsuwano. Smoke and mist drifted across the valley. The clouds were low, hiding the mountain range on the opposite side. The climb had warmed us, even made us sweat, but when we stopped our breath came white on the raw air. A few late berries still glowed red on leafless bushes; otherwise there was no color anywhere. Even the evergreen trees were muted almost to black. I could hear water trickling, and two crows were calling to each other from the crag. When they fell silent I heard someone breathing.

The sound came, slow and measured, from the rock itself. I
slowed my own breathing, touched Jo-An on the arm, and made a gesture with my head toward it.

He gave me a smile and spoke quietly: “It's all right. This is who we have come to see.”

The crows cawed again, their voices harsh and ominous. I began to shiver. The cold was creeping up on me, surrounding me. The fears of the previous night threatened to surface again. I wanted to keep moving. I did not want to meet whoever was concealed behind the rock, breathing so slowly they could hardly be human.

“Come,” Jo-An said, and I followed him round the edge of the rock, keeping my eyes away from the drop below. Behind, a cave was hollowed out of the side of the mountain. Water dripped from its roof. Over the centuries it had formed spears and columns and worn out a channel on the ground that led to a small deep pool, its sides as regular as a cistern and limestone-white. The water itself was black.

The roof of the cave sloped, following the shape of the mountain, and in the upper, drier side sat a figure that I would have thought was a statue if I had not heard its breathing. It was grayish white, like the limestone, as though it had sat there so long it had started to calcify. It was hard to tell if it was male or female; I recognized it as one of those ancient people, a hermit, a monk or nun, who had gone beyond sex and gender and grown so close to the next world he or she was almost pure spirit. The hair fell like a white shawl, the face and hands gray like old paper.

The figure sat in meditation on the floor of the cave with no sign of strain or discomfort. In front of it was a kind of stone altar bearing fading flowers, the last of the autumn lilies, and other offerings: two bitter oranges, their skins wrinkling, a small piece of
fabric, and some coins of little value. It was like any other shrine to the god of the mountain, except carved into the stone was the sign the Hidden use, the one Lady Maruyama had traced on my hand in Chigawa so long ago.

Jo-An untied his cloth and took out the last millet cake. He knelt and placed it carefully on the altar, then bowed his head to the ground. The figure opened its eyes and gazed on us—gazed but did not see. The eyes were clouded with blindness. An expression came over the face that made me drop to my knees and bow before it—a look of profound tenderness and compassion, blended with complete knowledge. I had no doubt I was in the presence of a holy being.

“Tomasu,” it said, and I thought its voice a woman's rather than a man's. It was so long since anyone had called me by the water name my mother gave me that the hair on the back of my neck stood up, and when I shivered it was not only from cold.

“Sit up,” she said. “I have words to say that you are to hear. You are Tomasu of Mino, but you have become both Otori and Kikuta. Three bloods are mixed in you. You were born into the Hidden, but your life has been brought into the open and is no longer your own. Earth will deliver what heaven desires.”

She fell silent. The minutes passed. The cold entered my bones. I wondered if she would say anything else. At first I was amazed that she knew who I was; then I thought Jo-An must have told her about me. If this was the prophecy, it was so obscure that it meant nothing to me. If I knelt there much longer I thought I would freeze to death, but I was held by the force of the blind woman's eyes.