Across the Nightingale Floor (12 page)

She doesn't like me
, the
girl thought, with an overwhelming sense of disappointment.

The snow melted and the house and
garden began to sing with water again. I had been in Hagi for six months. I had
learned to read, write, and draw. I had learned to kill in many different ways,
although I was yet to put any one of them into practice. I felt I could hear
the intentions of men's hearts, and I'd learned other useful skills, though
these were not so much taught to me by Kenji, as drawn up out of me. I could be
in two places at once, and take on invisibility, and could silence dogs with a
look that dropped them immediately into sleep. This last trick I discovered on
my own, and kept it from Kenji, for he taught me deviousness along with
everything else.

I used these skills whenever I grew
tired of the confines of the house, and its relentless routine of study,
practice, and obedience to my two severe teachers. I found it all too easy to
distract the guards, put the dogs to sleep, and slip through the gate without
anyone seeing me. Even Ichiro, and Kenji more than once were convinced I was
sitting somewhere quietly in the house with ink and brush, when I was out with
Fumio, exploring the back alleys around the port, swimming in the river,
listening to the sailors and the fishermen, breathing in the heady mix of salt
air, hemp ropes and nets, and seafood in all its forms, raw, steamed, grilled,
made into little dumplings or hearty stews that made our stomachs growl with
hunger. I caught the different accents, from the West, from the islands, even
from the mainland, and listened to conversations no one knew could be
overheard, learning always about the lives of the people, their fears and their
desires.

Sometimes I went out on my own,
crossing the river either by the fish weir or swimming. I explored the lands on
the far side, going deep into the mountains where farmers had their secret
fields, tucked away among the trees, unseen and therefore untaxed. I saw the
new green leaves burgeon in the coppices, and heard the chestnut groves come
alive with buzzing insects seeking the pollen on their golden catkins. I heard
the farmers buzz like insects, too, grumbling endlessly about the Otori lords,
the ever-increasing burden of taxes. And time and again Lord Shigeru's name
came up, and I learned of the bitterness held by more than half the population
that it was his uncles, and not he, in the castle. This was treason, spoken of
only at night or deep in the forest, when no one could overhear except me, and
I said nothing about it to anyone.

Spring burst on the landscape; the
air was warm, the whole earth alive. I was filled with a restlessness I did not
understand. I was looking for something, but had no idea what it was. Kenji
took me to the pleasure district, and I slept with girls there, not telling him
I had already visited the same places with Fumio, and finding only a brief
release from my longing. The girls filled me with pity as much as lust. They
reminded me of the girls I'd grown up with in Mino. They came in all likelihood
from similar families, sold into prostitution by their starving parents. Some
of them were barely out of childhood, and I searched their faces, looking for
my sisters' features. Shame often crept over me, but I did not stay away.

The spring festivals came, packing
the shrines and the streets with people. Drums shouted every night, the
drummers' faces and arms glistening with sweat in the lantern light, possessed
beyond exhaustion. I could not resist the fever of the celebrations, the
frenzied ecstasy of the crowds. One night I'd been out with Fumio, following
the god's statue as it was carried through the streets by a throng of
struggling, excited men. I had just said good-bye to him, when I was shoved
into someone, almost stepping on him. He turned towards me and I recognized
him: It was the traveler who had stayed at our house and tried to warn us of
Iida's persecution. A short squat man, with an ugly, shrewd face, he was a kind
of peddler who sometimes came to Mino. Before I could turn away I saw the flash
of recognition in his eyes, and saw pity spring there too.

He shouted to make himself heard
above the yelling crowd. “Tomasu!”

I shook my head, making my face and
eyes blank, but he was insistent. He tried to pull me out of the crowd into a passageway.
“Tomasu, it's you, isn't it—the boy from Mino?”

“You're mistaken,” I said. “I know
no one called Tomasu.”

“Everyone thought you were dead!”

“I don't know what you're talking
about,” I laughed, as if at a great joke, and tried to push my way back into
the crowd. He grabbed my arm to detain me and as he opened his mouth I knew
what he was going to say.

“Your mother's dead. They killed
her. They killed them all. You're the only one left! How did you get away?” He
tried to pull my face close to his. I could smell his breath, his sweat.

“You're drunk, old man!” I said.
“My mother is alive and well in Hofu, last I heard.” I pushed him off and
reached for my knife. “I am of the Otori clan.” I let anger replace my
laughter.

He backed away. “Forgive me, lord.
It was a mistake. I see now you are not who I thought you were.” He was a
little drunk, but fear was fast sobering him.

Through my mind flashed several
thoughts at once, the most pressing being that now I would have to kill this
man, this harmless peddler who had tried to warn my family. I saw exactly how
it would be done: I would lead him deeper into the passageway, take him off
balance, slip the knife into the artery in the neck, slash upwards, then let
him fall, lie like a drunk, and bleed to death. Even if anyone saw me, no one
would dare apprehend me.

The crowd surged past us; the knife
was in my hand. He dropped to the ground, his head in the dirt, pleading
incoherently for his life.

I cannot kill him , I thought, and
then: There is no need to kill him. He's decided I'm not Tomasu, and even if he
has his doubts, be will never dare voice them to anyone. He is one of the
Hidden, after all.

I backed away and let the crowd
carry me as far as the gates of the shrine. Then I slipped through the throng
to the path that ran along the bank of the river. Here it was dark, deserted,
but I could still hear the shouts of the excited crowd, the chants of the
priests, and the dull tolling of the temple bell. The river lapped and sucked
at the boats, the docks, the reeds. I remembered the first night I spent in
Lord Shigeru's house. The river is always at the door. The world is always
outside. And it is in the world that we must live.

The dogs, sleepy and docile,
followed me with their eyes as I went through the gate, but the guards did not
notice. Sometimes on these occasions I would creep into the guardroom and take
them by surprise, but this night I had no stomach for jokes. I thought bitterly
how slow and unobservant they were, how easy it would be for another member of
the Tribe to enter, as the assassin had done. Then I was filled with revulsion
for this world of stealth, duplicity, and intrigue that I was so skilled in. I
longed to be Tomasu again, running down the mountain to my mother's house.

The corners of my eyes were
burning. The garden was full of the scents and sounds of spring. In the
moonlight the early blossoms gleamed with a fragile whiteness. Their purity
pierced my heart. How was it possible for the world to be so beautiful and so
cruel at the same time?

Lamps on the veranda flickered and
guttered in the warm breeze. Kenji was sitting in the shadows. He called to me,
“Lord Shigeru has been scolding Ichiro for losing you. I told him, 'You can
gentle a fox but you'll never turn it into a house dog!'” He saw my face as I
came into the light. “What happened?”

“My mother is dead.” Only children
cry. Men and women endure. Within my heart the child Tomasu was crying, but
Takeo was dry-eyed.

Kenji drew me closer and whispered,
“Who told you?”

“Someone I knew from Mino was at
the shrine.”

“He recognized you?”

“He thought he did. I persuaded him
he was wrong. But while he still thought I was Tomasu, he told me of my
mother's death.”

“I'm sorry for it,” Kenji said
perfunctorily. “You killed him, I hope.”

I didn't reply. I didn't need to.
He knew almost as soon as he'd formed the question. He thwacked me on the back
in exasperation, as Ichiro did when I missed a stroke in a character. “You're a
fool, Takeo!”

“He was unarmed, harmless. He knew
my family.”

“It's just as I feared. You let
pity stay your hand. Don't you know the man whose life you spare will always
hate you? All you did was convince him you are Tomasu.”

“Why should he die because of my
destiny? What benefit would his death bring? None!”

“It's the disasters his life, his
living tongue, may bring that concern me,” Kenji replied, and went inside to
tell Lord Shigeru.

———«»———«»———«»———

I was in disgrace in the household
and forbidden to wander alone in the town. Kenji kept a closer eye on me, and I
found it almost impossible to evade him. It didn't keep me from trying. As
always, an obstacle only had to be set before me for me to seek to overcome it.
I infuriated him by my lack of obedience, but my skills grew even more acute,
and I came to have more and more confidence in them.

Lord Shigeru spoke to me of my
mother's death after Kenji had told him of my failure as an assassin. “You wept
for her the first night we met. There must be no sign of grief now. You don't
know who is watching you.”

So the grief remained unexpressed,
in my heart. At night I silently repeated the prayers of the Hidden for my
mother's soul, and for my sisters'. But I did not say the prayers of
forgiveness she had taught me. I had no intention of loving my enemies. I let
my grief feed my desire for revenge.

That night was also the last time I
saw Fumio. When I managed to evade Kenji and get to the port again, the Terada
ships had vanished. I learned from the other fishermen that they had left one
night, finally driven into exile by high taxes and unfair regulations. The
rumors were that they had fled to Oshima, where the family originally hailed
from. With that remote island as a base, they would almost certainly turn to
piracy.

Around this time, before the plum
rains began, Lord Shigeru became very interested in construction and proceeded
with his plans to build a tea room on one end of the house. I went with him to
choose the wood, the cedar trunks that would support floor and roof, the slabs
of cypress for the walls. The smell of sawn wood reminded me of the mountains,
and the carpenters had the characteristics of the men of my village, being
mostly taciturn but given to sudden outbursts of laughter over their
unfathomable jokes. I found myself slipping back into my old patterns of speech,
using words from the village I had not used for months. Sometimes my slang even
made them chuckle.

Lord Shigeru was intrigued by all
the stages of building, from seeing the trees felled in the forest to the
preparation of the planks and the different methods of laying floors. We made
many visits to the lumberyard, accompanied by the master carpenter, Shiro, a
man who seemed to be fashioned from the same material as the wood he loved so
much, brother to the cedar and the cypress. He spoke of the character and
spirit of each type of wood, and what it brings from the forest into the house.

“Each wood has its own sound,” he
said. “Every house has its own song.”

I had thought only I knew how a
house can sing. I'd been listening to Lord Shigeru's house for months now, had
heard its song quiet into winter music, had listened to its beams and walls as
it pressed closer to the ground under the weight of snow, froze and thawed and
shrank and stretched. Now it sang again of water.

Shiro was watching me as though he
knew my thoughts.

“I've heard Lord Iida has ordered a
floor to be made that sings like a nightingale,” he said. “But who needs to
make a floor sing like a bird when it already has its own song?”

“What's the purpose of such a
floor?” Lord Shigeru asked, seemingly idly.

“He's afraid of assassination. It's
one more piece of protection. No one can cross the floor without it starting to
chirp.”

“How is it made?”

The old man took a piece of
half-made flooring and explained how the joists were placed so the boards squeaked.
“They have them, I'm told, in the capital. Most people want a silent floor.
They'd reject a noisy one, make you lay it again. But Iida can't sleep at
night. He's afraid someone will creep in on him—and now he lies awake, afraid
his floor will sing!” He chuckled to himself.

“Could you make such a floor?” Lord
Shigeru inquired.

Shiro grinned at me. “I can make a
floor so quiet, even Takeo can't hear it. I reckon I can make one that would
sing.”

“Takeo will help you,” the lord
announced. “He needs to know exactly how it is constructed.”

I did not dare ask why then. I
already had a fair idea, but I did not want to put it into words. The
discussion moved on to the tea room, and while Shiro directed its building, he
made a small singing floor, a boardwalk that replaced the verandas of the
house, and I watched every board laid, every joist and every peg.

Chiyo complained that the squeaking
gave her a headache, and that it sounded more like mice than any bird. But
eventually the household grew used to it, and the noises became part of the
everyday song of the house.

The floor amused Kenji to no end:
He thought it would keep me inside. Lord Shigeru said no more about why I had
to know how the floor was made, but I imagine he knew the pull it would have on
me. I listened to it all day long. I knew exactly who was walking on it by
their tread. I could predict the next note of the floor's song. I tried to walk
on it without awakening the birds. It was hard—Shiro had done his job well—but
not impossible. I had watched the floor being made. I knew there was nothing
enchanted about it. It was just a matter of time before I mastered it. With the
almost fanatical patience that I knew now was a trait of the Tribe, I practiced
crossing the floor.