Spirit's Chosen (46 page)

I gave him my hand. “Are you my husband now?” I asked.

“If you are my wife,” he replied, smiling. “In all of my travels I never found a clan that did not follow a wedding rite like this, bride and groom sharing food from one dish and drink from one cup.”

“We didn’t have a cup,” I said archly. “Does that mean we aren’t wed?”

“You impossible girl,” he said fondly, and took me into his arms.

Another thunderstorm blew through the mountains that night, but the day of Mori’s burial dawned clear, bright, and very still. I was up early, ready to greet the servants when they arrived at the shrine to serve breakfast and begin the day’s work. Ashi appeared with her arms piled high with clothes.

“I borrowed this dress for you, Lady Himiko,” she said, unfurling a hemp gown, the correct attire for mourning. “Did Master Daimu remember where his funeral garments are stored?”

“How would I know?” I replied lightly. “Do I look like his wife?”

The older woman smiled at me. “He could do worse.”

The servants remained in the dark about how things had altered between Daimu and me. The two of us did nothing to reveal the change in our relationship. We agreed that our new bond should be revealed publicly only when Ryu tried to enforce his order of banishment against me.

“I want to see his face when I tell him that if you go, I go,” Daimu said, ending his words with a kiss.

“What will you do if he says ‘Good, then go, and may the mountain ogres feast on your bones’?” I teased. “It would be the perfect opportunity for him to be rid of you and set Rinji in your place as this clan’s sole shaman.”

“Do you think the rest of our people will consent to that?” he replied. “Do you think Ryu’s own mother will allow it? Ha! She’ll skin him alive with that sharp tongue of hers.” More earnestly, he added: “My love, Rinji is a good man and a good enough shaman, but the Ookami fear the spirits too much to settle for that. They have eyes and memories, to see and to recall how much the gods favor one shaman over another by how quickly a sick person recovers or how well we avoid disaster. When they compare his work to yours and mine, he loses the contest.”

I could not argue with that, perhaps because I wanted to see the same outcome as he did. We ate our morning meal seated well apart from one another and hardly spoke a word, for fear they would be unguarded words of love.

It was Daimu’s duty to fetch his uncle’s bones to the burial ground that morning. He had placed them outside the village palisade, to shield the Ookami from any bad fortune clinging to relics of death. Stones were piled over the cloth-wrapped bundle, protecting Mori’s remains from being disturbed until it was time for their final interment. As I accompanied him to the cairn, many of the villagers fell into step behind us. They had not been kind to the fallen giant while he was alive, but now that he was dead and had a spirit’s power, they were eager to show him respect.

As Daimu began removing the stones one by one, the village potter joined us, along with one of her apprentices, a moon-faced girl who was very self-conscious about her part in the day’s solemn event. The potter’s hands were empty. A person of her status in the village would not need to carry the larger objects she crafted. That was what apprentices were for. The finely shaped, smooth-sided jar that would house the remains of Mori’s body was cradled in the girl’s plump arms. She carried it proudly, as though it were a noble’s child.

Once the bundled bones were revealed, it was my turn to take part in the preparations. I had a length of silk that had been taken from one of the clan storehouses. The Ookami did not make that precious fabric, but received it in tribute from their subjects. Mori’s remains would be clothed splendidly, though the man himself had lived in rags for most of his life. Tenderly I swathed the bones in silk and passed them to Daimu, who placed them reverently in the clay jar.

We resumed our path to the burial ground. A crowd was already there, massed around the walls of the waiting tomb. The people stepped aside when they saw us approach, some of them murmuring empty expressions of sympathy to Daimu as he passed. A group of aristocrats occupied positions of honor, close to the doorway into darkness. They managed to show off their exalted status, despite their plain hemp garments, by how many household slaves they’d brought to attend them. I recognized more than one face belonging to the Matsu clan. When the ceremony began, they would share the best view with their masters. I gave thanks
that this would not include the sight of our kinfolk being sealed away with the dead.

Daimu set down the jar on the tomb’s threshold and looked around. “Has Lord Ryu arrived yet?” he asked one of the nobles.

“He will be here,” the man replied. “When I left my house this morning, I caught sight of him hurrying through the village. He must have had some last-moment arrangements to make.”

I searched the crowd too. “Where is Master Rinji?” I asked.

That question took everyone by surprise. Soon we were all glancing here and there, seeking the shaman who was supposed to be conducting the rites for Daimu’s uncle.

“Maybe Master Rinji has run into some difficulty,” a second highborn Ookami suggested. “He could have sent word to our chieftain, asking for aid, and that accounts for both of them.”

“Someone ought to go back to the village and look into this,” the first noble said. He gestured at one of the commoners. “You, there! See to it!” The fellow jogged off obediently.

An awkward silence settled over the burial ground. It was made even more uncomfortable by the eerie absence of any sound at all, except for the rustle of hemp clothes and the whispers of the waiting people. Though the gods had sent two thunderstorms in rapid succession, the downpours had not managed to wash away the hovering tension that possessed the earth and the heavens before a tempest.

I looked around and was surprised by how many people had come to witness Mori’s funeral rites. “It looks like half the village is here,” I murmured to Daimu.

“Maybe more than that,” he whispered. “I’ll bet that the only ones working in the fields today are slaves. If even a handful of these gawkers had treated my poor uncle with a little kindness while he was alive, we would not be waiting to bury his bones today.”

“When he was alive, he frightened them because they couldn’t understand why he was so different,” I said. “Now that he’s dead, they can pretend to be brave, like children patting a dead wolf’s fur. I wonder how many of them are here because they still expect to see him receive a bloody sacrifice.”

“I hope I never find out,” Daimu said glumly. “I have to go on living with these people. May the gods never grant me the ability to see beneath the surface of things. If I had no choice but to see the ugliness that lurks behind their smiling faces, I would become a hermit like my poor uncle.”

I gave his hand a quick squeeze under cover of my trailing sleeve. “I know what you mean. I used to pray for the day when the spirits would show me their favor by granting me visions. Now I wish it were not so. When this ceremony is done, I want to talk to you about a dream I had.”

“A dream?”

“To be honest, it felt more like a vision. When I dream, it’s always with the feeling that I can force myself awake at any time and escape it. In a vision, the gods themselves command me to endure it all. I cannot close my eyes
or turn away.” The echo of the sun goddess’s words fell heavily upon me as I spoke:
When the gods remake the world, dragons dance and mortals perish
. The uninvited memory left me trembling.

“Himiko?” Daimu’s concern showed plainly in his face. “What’s come over you? You’re so pale! Are you well?”

“I’m fine.” I made myself smile, but my mind held nothing but the image of a glowing golden dragon stone, its face crackling as tiny fissures radiated across it. I had to make an effort not to gasp for breath. “It’s the weather—so stifling! There’s going to be another storm soon. We have to begin the ceremony before it breaks!”

“There
is
something strange in the air,” Daimu agreed. “I think I’d better take charge. I brought this with me”—he tapped the protruding handle of the sacred bronze mirror tucked into his belt—“because I wanted Rinji to use something special to me when he performed Uncle’s burial ceremony. Now it looks like I will need
all
the items necessary for the ritual.” He sighed. “I expected better behavior from Rinji, but we cannot linger here forever, waiting for him to set aside his bitterness.” He stepped away from me and raised his arms to the massed Ookami: “My people, hear me! It is past time that we began these rites. Some unknown cause is keeping Master Rinji away, so I will officiate, with the gods’ permission. Will someone run to the shrine to fetch me what I’ll need?”

A boy on the brink of manhood sprang forward at once, eager for the responsibility and the attention. Daimu was in the middle of giving the lad his instructions when a shout rose up from the very back of the crowd: “It’s all right,
Master Daimu! You don’t need to worry anymore: here they come now!”

Daimu smiled happily at the news. I understood: his shaken faith in his former apprentice was restored.

“Thank the gods, he didn’t let jealousy rule him,” I said softly. “You and I will have to speak with him later and mend things between us, but at least he’s here now. Go and welcome him, beloved. The crowd is so thick, he’s having a hard time getting through. Why won’t they stand aside? What are they staring at? They’ll make him feel self-conscious for arriving late.”

Then the mass of bodies parted and I saw the reason why the Ookami had clustered around Rinji: he had not arrived alone. He held a short length of rope in one hand; the other end was tied in a noose around a young man’s neck. It was Hiroshi, the good-hearted young guardsman who had stood watch at the doorway to my clanfolk’s prison. His hands were tied, his face was hideously bruised, and he staggered dizzily. Ryu walked behind him, a grin on his face, a drawn sword in his hand.

“All praise to the gods!” the wolf chieftain called out, not even bothering to conceal the note of mockery in his voice. “I asked for their guidance and here is the result.” He planted his free hand in the center of Hiroshi’s back and gave him a hard shove. The unlucky young man tripped and fell into Rinji, who jumped as though he’d touched a burning brand. “Here is the answer to all of our prayers.”

Ryu’s announcement raced through the crowd, sowing confusion. Hiroshi was a well-liked member of the Ookami clan. Everyone began talking at once, some retreating, some
gathering so close to Rinji and his captive that the shaman looked like a rabbit cornered by hounds.

Daimu’s voice rose above all others, calling for the right to be heard. “Lord Ryu, what are you doing? This is my uncle’s interment, a ceremony that
you
promised to provide to be forgiven for killing him. Is
this
what kept you from being here until now and dishonoring his memory with your carelessness?” He indicated the beaten guard. “What has this man done? What crime is so great that you could not wait to punish it until after we have laid my uncle’s bones in the tomb?”

Ryu’s victorious smile died. “Watch what you say, Master Daimu. Our clan praises you for your integrity. You don’t want them to think you’d twist words and deeds for your own purposes, do you? I did nothing wrong in saving our people from a dangerous, unpredictable exile! I still stand ready to shield the Ookami from all harm, whether from humans, gods, or ghosts! I swore to your uncle’s spirit that he would have a sacrifice worthy of our mightiest chieftains, but when the chosen slaves vanished, you made it seem like a miraculous sign proving
her
untouchably high favor with the gods!” He jabbed his free hand and all eyes turned to me. “We all heard you declare Lady Himiko’s supreme powers as a shaman, and place her and all her kin high above us, untouchable. Better to have an angry ghost lurking in our midst forever than to shed a single drop of Matsu blood!”

“Master Daimu never said such things!” I countered, but my objection was swallowed by the noise of the crowd. The taut, anxious atmosphere enveloping us made all fears
feel more vivid. I understood this down to the core of my bones. My own skin was stinging as if a host of demons were pricking it with thorns. The Ookami were caught up in the spell of terror. The open door of Mori’s monument sheltered unseen horrors. The monstrous threat of a menacing phantom rose like poisoned smoke from the simple jar that held his bones. Trapped and rendered helpless by their own wild imaginings, they clamored loudly to be saved.

Before full panic could erupt, Ryu raised his voice again. “My people, calm yourselves! Didn’t I say that the gods answered my prayers? Oni’s ghost will depart in peace forever, attended by the one responsible for robbing him of his proper sacrifice. Let the tomb receive them both!”

Rinji gave a halfhearted tug at the hemp collar ringing Hiroshi’s neck and began leading him toward the doorway and the darkness beyond. My insides were as cold as the stones of winter. As they passed me, I saw how the young man turned his eyes everywhere around him, desperately devouring his last sight of green earth, ageless mountains, towering trees, the faces of his friends and kindred, the graceful procession of clouds across the sweet blue sky, and the glorious light of the sun goddess.