Across the Nightingale Floor (33 page)

“Arai is here!” Shizuka cried.

———«»———«»———«»———

There are chronicles enough of the
fall of Inuyama, and I took no further part in it, so there is no need for me
to describe it here.

I had not expected to live beyond
that night. I had no idea what to do next. I had given my life to the Tribe,
that much was clear to me, but I still had duties to perform for Shigeru.

Kaede knew nothing of my bargain
with the Kikuta. If I were Otori, Shigeru's heir, it would be my duty to marry
her, and indeed there was nothing I wanted more. If I were to become Kikuta,
Lady Shirakawa would be as unobtainable as the moon. What had happened between
us now seemed like a dream. If I thought about it, I felt I should be ashamed
of what I had done, and so like a coward I put it out of my mind.

We went first to the Muto residence
where I had been hidden, changed our clothes, grabbed a little food. Shizuka
went immediately to speak to Arai, leaving Kaede in the charge of the women of
the house.

I did not want to speak to Kenji,
or anyone. I wanted to get to Terayama, bury Shigeru, and place Iida's head on
the grave. I knew I had to do this quickly, before the Kikuta controlled me
fully. I was aware that I had already disobeyed the master of my family by
returning to the castle. Even though I had not killed Iida myself, everyone
would assume I had, against the express wishes of the Tribe. I could not deny
it without causing immense harm to Kaede. I did not intend to disobey forever.
I just needed a little more time.

It was easy enough to slip out of
the house during the confusion of that day. I went to the lodging house where I
had stayed with Shigeru. The owners had fled before Arai's army, taking most of
their possessions with them, but many of our things were still in the rooms,
including the sketches I had done at Terayama, and the writing box on which
Shigeru had written his final letter to me. I looked at them with sorrow.
Grief's clamor was growing louder and louder inside me, demanding my attention.
It seemed I could feel Shigeru's presence in the room, see him sitting in the
open doorway as night fell and I did not return.

I did not take much: a change of
clothes, a little money, and my horse, Raku, from the stables. Shigeru's black,
Kyu, had disappeared, as had most of the Otori horses, but Raku was still
there, restive and uneasy as the smell of fire drifted over the town. He was
relieved to see me. I saddled him up, tied the basket that held Iida's head to
the saddlebow, and rode out of the city, joining the throngs of people on the
highway who were fleeing from the approaching armies.

I went swiftly, sleeping only a
little at night. The weather had cleared, and the air was crisp with a hint of
autumn. Each day the mountains rose clear-edged against a brilliant blue sky.
Some of the trees were already showing golden leaves. Bush clover and arrowroot
were beginning to flower. It was probably beautiful, but I saw no beauty in
anything. I knew I had to reflect on what I would do, but I could not bear to
look at what I had done. I was in that stage of grief where I could not bear to
go forward. I only wanted to go back, back to the house in Hagi, back in time
to when Shigeru was alive, before we left for Inuyama.

On the afternoon of the fourth day,
when I had just passed Kushimoto, I became aware that the travelers on the road
were now streaming towards me. I called to a farmer leading a packhorse,
“What's up ahead?”

“Monks! Warriors!” he shouted back.
“Yamagata has fallen to them. The Tohan are fleeing. They say Lord Iida is
dead!”

I grinned, wondering what he would
do if he saw the grisly baggage on my saddle. I was in traveling clothes,
unmarked with any crest. No one knew who I was, and I did not know that my name
had already become famous.

Before long I heard the sound of
men at arms on the road ahead, and I took Raku into the forest. I did not want
to lose him or get embroiled in petty fights with the retreating Tohan. They
were moving fast, obviously hoping to reach Inuyama before the monks caught up
with them, but I felt they would be held up at the pass at Kushimoto and would
probably have to make a stand there.

They straggled past for most of the
rest of the day, while I worked my way northward through the forest, avoiding
them as often as I could, though twice I had to use Jato to defend myself and
my horse. My wrist still bothered me, and as the sun set I became more
uneasy—not for my own safety, but that my mission would not be accomplished. It
seemed too dangerous to try to sleep. The moon was bright, and I rode all night
beneath its light, Raku moving on with his easy stride, one ear forward, one
back.

Dawn came and I saw in the distance
the shape of the mountains that surrounded Terayama. I would be there before
the end of the day. I saw a pool below the road, and stopped to let Raku drink.
The sun rose, and in its warmth I became suddenly sleepy. I tied the horse to a
tree and took the saddle for a pillow, lay down, and fell immediately asleep. I
was woken by the earth shaking beneath me. I lay for a moment, looking at the
dappled light that fell on the pool, listening to the trickle of the water and
the tread of hundreds of feet approaching along the road. I stood, meaning to
take Raku deeper into the forest to hide him, but when I looked up I saw that
the army was not the last of the Tohan. The men wore armor and carried weapons,
but the banners were of the Otori, and of the temple at Terayama. Those that
did not wear helmets had shaven heads, and in the front rank I recognized the
young man who had shown us the paintings.

“Makoto!” I called to him, climbing
the bank towards him. He turned to me, and a look of joy and astonishment
crossed his face.

“Lord Otori? Is it really you? We
feared you would be dead too. We are riding to avenge Lord Shigeru.”

“I am on my way to Terayama,” I
said. “I am taking Iida's head to him, as he commanded me.”

His eyes widened a little. “Iida is
already dead?”

“Yes, and Inuyama has fallen to
Arai. You'll catch up with the Tohan at Kushimoto.”

“Won't you ride with us?”

I stared at him. His words made no
sense to me. My work was almost done. I had to finish my last duty to Shigeru,
and then I would disappear into the secret world of the Tribe. But of course
there was no way Makoto could know of the choices I had made.

“Are you all right?” he asked.
“You're not wounded?”

I shook my head. “I have to place
the head on Shigeru's grave.”

Makoto's eyes gleamed. “Show it to
us!”

I brought the basket and opened it.
The smell was strengthening and flies had gathered on the blood. The skin was a
waxy gray color, the eyes dull and bloodshot.

Makoto took it by the topknot,
leaped onto a boulder by the side of the road, and held it up to the monks
gathered around. “Now see what Lord Otori has done!” he shouted, and the men
shouted back a great hurrah. A wave of emotion swept through them. I heard my
name repeated over and over again as, one by one at first, and then as if with
a single mind, they knelt in the dust before me, bowing to the ground.

Kenji was right: People had loved
Shigeru—the monks, the farmers, most of the Otori clan—and because I had
carried out the revenge, that love was transferred to me.

It seemed to add to my burdens. I
did not want this adulation. I did not deserve it, and I was in no position to
live up to it. I bade farewell to the monks, wished them success, and rode on,
the head back in its basket.

They did not want me to go alone,
and so Makoto came with me. He told me how Yuki had arrived at Terayama with
Shigeru's head, and they were preparing the burial rites. She must have
traveled day and night to get there so soon, and I thought of her with enormous
gratitude.

By evening we were in the temple.
Led by the old priest, the monks who remained there were chanting the sutras for
Shigeru, and the stone had already been erected over the place where the head
was buried. I knelt by it and placed his enemy's head before him. The moon was
half-full. In its ethereal light the rocks in the Sesshu garden looked like men
praying. The sound of the waterfall seemed louder than by day. Beneath it I
could hear the cedars sighing as the night breeze stirred them. Crickets
shrilled and frogs were croaking from the pools below the cascade. I heard the
beating of wings, and saw the shy hawk owl swoop through the graveyard. Soon it
would migrate again; soon summer would be over.

I thought it was a beautiful place
for his spirit to rest in. I stayed by the grave for a long time, tears flowing
silently. He had told me that only children cry. Men endure, he said, but what
seemed unthinkable to me was that I should be the man who would take his place.
I was haunted by the conviction that I should not have dealt the deathblow. I
had beheaded him with his own sword. I was not his heir: I was his murderer.

I thought longingly of the house in
Hagi, with its song of the river and the world. I wanted it to sing that song
to my children. I wanted them to grow up beneath its gentle shelter. I
daydreamed that Kaede would prepare tea in the room Shigeru built, and our
children would try to outwit the nightingale floor. In the evenings we would
watch the heron come to the garden, its great gray shape standing patiently in
the stream.

In the depths of the garden someone
was playing the flute. Its liquid notes pierced my heart. I did not think I
would ever recover from my grief.

The days passed, and I could not
leave the temple. I knew I must make a decision and leave, but each day I put
it off. I was aware that the old priest and Makoto were concerned for me, but
they left me alone, apart from looking after me in practical ways, reminding me
to eat, to bathe, to sleep.

Every day people came to pray at
Shigeru's grave. At first a trickle, then a flood, of returning soldiers,
monks, farmers, and peasants filed reverently past the tombstone, prostrating
themselves before it, their faces wet with tears. Shigeru had been right: He
was even more powerful, and more beloved, in death than in life.

“He will become a god,” the old
priest predicted. “He will join the others in the shrine.”

Night after night I dreamed of
Shigeru as I had last seen him, his features streaked with water and blood, and
when I woke, my heart pounding with horror, I heard the flute. I began to look
forward to the mournful notes as I lay sleepless. I found its music both
painful and consoling.

The moon waned; the nights were
darker. We heard of the victory at Kushimoto from the returning monks. Life at
the temple began to return to normal, the old rituals closing like water over
the heads of the dead. Then word came that Lord Arai, who was now master of
most of the Three Countries, was coming to Terayama to pay his respects to
Shigeru's grave.

That night, when I heard the flute
music, I went to talk to the player. It was, as I had half suspected, Makoto. I
was deeply touched that he should have been watching over me, accompanying me
in my sorrow.

He was sitting by the pool, where
sometimes in the day I had seen him feed the golden carp. He finished the
phrase and laid the flute down.

“You will have to come to a
decision once Arai is here,” he said. “What will you do?”

I sat down next to him. The dew was
falling, and the stones were wet. “What should I do?”

“You are Shigeru's heir. You must
take up his inheritance.” He paused, then said, “But it is not that simple, is
it? There is something else that calls you.”

“It doesn't exactly call me. It
commands me. I am under an obligation. . . . It's hard to explain it to
anyone.”

“Try me,” he said.

“You know I have acute hearing.
Like a dog, you once said.”

“I shouldn't have said that. It
hurt you. Forgive me.”

“No, you were right. 'Useful to
your masters,' you said. Well, I am useful to my masters, and they are not the
Otori.”

“The Tribe?”

“You know of them?”

“Only a little,” he said. “Our
abbot mentioned them.” There was a moment when I thought he was going to say
something else, that he was waiting for me to ask a question. But I did not
know the right question to ask then, and I was too absorbed in my own thoughts,
and my own need to explain them.

“My father was of the Tribe, and
the talents I have come from him. They have claimed me, as they believe they
have the right. I made a bargain with them that they would allow me to rescue
Lord Shigeru, and in return I would join them.”

“What right do they have to demand
that of you, when you are Shigeru's legal heir?” he asked, indignant.

“If I try to escape from them, they
will kill me,” I replied. “They believe they have that right, and as I made the
bargain, I believe it too. My life is theirs.”

“You must have made the agreement
under duress,” he said. “No one will expect you to keep it. You are Otori
Takeo. I don't think you realize how famous you have become, how much your name
means.”

“I killed him,” I said, and to my
shame felt the tears begin to flow again. “I can never forgive myself. I can't
take on his name and his life. He died at my hands.”

“You gave him an honorable death,”
Makoto whispered, taking my hands in his. “You fulfilled every duty a son
should to his father. Everywhere you are admired and praised for it. And to
kill Iida too. It is the stuff of legends.”

“I have not fulfilled every duty,”
I replied. “His uncles plotted his death with Iida, and they go unpunished. And
he charged me to take care of Lady Shirakawa, who has suffered terribly through
no fault of her own.”

“That would not be too much of a
burden,” he said, eyeing me ironically, and I felt the blood rise in my face.
“I noticed your hands touching,” he said, and after a pause: “I notice
everything about you.”