Brilliance of the Moon (30 page)

She thought again of Ishida and wondered if gentleness and
compassion were contagious and she had caught them from him. And then she
thought of the other, deeper secret she held within her. Where had her
obedience been then?

The Festival of the Weaver Star fell on a rainy night. The
children were dismayed, for the clouded sky meant that the magpies could not
build a bridge across heaven for the princess to meet her lover. She would miss
their one meeting and be separated from him for another year.

Shizuka took it as a bad omen, and her depression increased.

Occasionally messengers came from Yamagata and beyond. They
brought news of Takeo’s marriage to Kaede, their flight from Tera-yama, the
outcasts’ bridge, and the defeat of Jin-emon. The maids marveled at what seemed
to them like something from an ancient legend and made up songs about it. Kenji
and Shizuka discussed these events at night, both torn by the same mixture of
dismay and unwilling admiration. Then the young couple and their army moved
into Maruyama and news of them dwindled, though reports came from time to time
of Takeo’s campaign against the Tribe.

“It seems he has learned ruthlessness,” her uncle said to her,
but they did not discuss
it
further. Kenji
had other preoccupations. He did not speak of Yuki again, but when the seventh
month passed and no news had come of her, the whole household entered a time of
waiting. Everyone was anxious for this Muto child, the master’s first
grandchild, who had been claimed by the Kikuta and would be brought up by them.

One afternoon just before the Festival of the Dead, Shizuka
walked up to the waterfall. It was a day of oppressive heat with no wind, and
she sat with her feet in the cool water. The cascade was white against the gray
rocks, and the spray caught rainbows. Cicadas droned in the cedars, rasping her
nerves. Through their monotonous sound she heard her younger son approaching,
though she pretended not to; just at the last moment, when he thought he would
surprise her, she reached out and caught him behind the knees. She pulled him
into her lap.

“You heard me,” he said, disappointed.

“You were making more noise than a wild boar.”

“I was not!”

“Maybe I have something of the Kikuta hearing,” she teased him.

“I have that.”

“I know. And I think it will become even sharper as you grow
older.” She opened his palm and traced the line that ran straight across it.
“You and I have the same hands.”

“Like Takeo,” he said with pride.

“What do you know about Takeo?” she said, smiling.

“He’s Kikuta too. Uncle Kenji told us about him: how he can do
things no one else can do, even though he was impossible to teach, Uncle says.”
He paused for a moment and then said in a small voice, “I wish we didn’t have
to kill him.”

“How do you know that? Did Uncle tell you that too?”

“I heard it. I hear lots of things. People don’t know I’m there.”

“Were you sent to find me?” she asked, reminding herself to share
no secrets in her grandparents’ house without checking where her son was first.

“Not exactly. No one told me to come, but I think you should go
home.”

“What’s happened?”

“Aunt Seiko came. She is very unhappy. And Uncle—” He broke off
and stared at her. “I have never seen him like that before.”

Yuki
, she thought at once. She stood quickly and pulled on her
sandals. Her heart was pounding, her mouth dry. If her aunt had come, it could
only be bad news—the worst.

Her fears were confirmed by the pall of mourning that seemed to
have settled over the whole village. The guards’ faces were pale, and there
were no smiles or banter. She did not stop to question them but hurried to her
grandparents’ house. The women of the village had already gathered, leaving
fires unlit and the evening meal uncooked. She pushed her way through them as
they muttered words of sympathy and condolences. Inside, her aunt, Kenji’s
wife, knelt on the floor next to her grandmother, surrounded by the household
women. Her face was drawn, her eyes red, her body shaking with deep sobbing.

“Aunt!” Shizuka knelt before her and bowed deeply. “What
happened?”

Seiko took her hand and gripped it hard but could not speak.

“Yuki passed away,” her grandmother said quietly.

“And the baby?”

“The baby is well; it’s a boy.”

“I am so sorry,” Shizuka said. “Childbirth…”

Her aunt was racked by even fiercer sobs.

“It was not childbirth,” the old woman said, putting her arms
around Seiko and rocking her like a child.

“Where is my uncle?”

“In the next room, with his father. Go to him. Maybe you can
comfort him.”

Shizuka rose and went quietly to the next room, feeling her eyes
grow hot with unshed tears.

Kenji sat unmoving next to his father in the dim room. All the
shutters were closed and it was stifling. The old man had tears trickling down
his face; every now and then he raised his sleeve to wipe them away, but her
uncle’s eyes were dry.

“Uncle,” she whispered.

He did not move for a while. She knelt silently. Then he turned
his head and looked at her.

“Shizuka,” he said. His eyes went bright as tears sprang into
them but did not fall. “My wife is here; did you see her?”

She nodded.

“Our daughter is dead.”

“It’s terrible news,” she said. “I am so sorry for your loss.”
The phrases seemed useless and empty of meaning.

He did not say anything else. Eventually she dared to ask, “How
did it happen?”

“The Kikuta killed her. They made her take poison.” He spoke as
if he did not believe his own words.

Shizuka herself could not believe them. Despite the heat she felt
chilled to the bone. “Why? How could they do such a thing?”

“They did not trust her to keep the child from Takeo or to bring
him up to hate his father.”

She had thought nothing could shock her about the Tribe, but this
revelation made her heart nearly stop beating and her voice disappear.

“Who knows, perhaps they also wanted to punish me,” he said. “My
wife blames me: for not going after Takeo myself, for knowing nothing of
Shigeru’s records, for spoiling Yuki when she was a child.”

“Don’t speak of these things now,” she said. “You cannot blame
yourself.”

He was staring into the distance. She wondered what he was
seeing.

“They did not have to kill her,” he said. “I will never forgive
them for that.” His voice broke, and though his face was clenched, the tears
fell then.

The
Festival of the Dead was
celebrated with more than usual solemnity and grief. Food was placed at the
mountain shrines and bonfires lit on the peaks to light the way back to the
world of the dead. Yet the dead seemed reluctant to return. They wanted to stay
with the living and remind them over and again of the ways they had died and
their need for remorse, for revenge.

Kenji and his wife brought no comfort to each other, unable to
draw close in their grief, each blaming the other for Yuki’s death. Shizuka
spent many hours with each of them, unable to give them any consolation but her
presence. Her grandmother brewed calming teas for Seiko, and the woman slept
long and often, but Kenji would take nothing to dull his pain, and Shizuka
often sat with him until late at night, listening to him talk about his
daughter.

“I brought her up like a son,” he said one night. “She was so
talented. And fearless. My wife thinks I gave her too much freedom. She blames
me for treating her like a boy. Yuki became too independent; she thought she
could do anything. In the end, Shizuka, she’s dead because she was a woman.”
After a moment he added, “Probably the only woman I’ve ever really loved.” In
an unexpected gesture of affection, he reached out and touched her arm.
“Forgive me. I am of course very fond of you.”

“As I am of you,” she replied. “I wish I could ease your grief.”

“Well, nothing can
ease it,” he said. “I will never get over it. I must
either
follow her into death or live with it as we all must live with grief. In the
meantime…“ He sighed deeply.

The rest of the household had retired. It was a little cooler,
and the screens stood open to catch the slight breeze that now and then crept
down the mountain. A single lamp burned at Kenji’s side. Shizuka moved slightly
so she could see something of his face.

“What?” she prompted.

He seemed to change the subject. “I sacrificed Shigeru to the
Kikuta for the sake of unity. Now they have taken my daughter from me too.”
Again he fell silent.

“What do you plan to do?”

“The boy is my grandchild—the only one I’ll ever have. I find it
hard to accept that he’s lost to the Muto completely. I imagine his father will
have a certain interest in him, too, if I know Takeo. I said before that I
would not seek Takeo’s death; that’s partly why I’ve been hiding out here all
summer. Now I will go further: I want the Muto family to come to an agreement
with him, to make a truce.”

“And go against the Kikuta?”

“I will never do anything in agreement with them again. If Takeo
can destroy them, I will do everything in my power to help him.”

She saw something in his face and knew he was hoping Takeo would
give him the revenge he craved. “You will destroy the Tribe,” she whispered.

“We are already destroying ourselves,” he said bleakly.
“Moreover, everything is changing around us. I believe we are at the end of an
era. When this war is over, whoever is the victor will rule over the whole of
the Three Countries. Takeo wants to gain his inheritance and punish Shigeru’s
uncles, but whoever leads the Otori, Arai will have to fight them: Either the
Otori clan must conquer or they must be utterly defeated and wiped out, for
there will be no peace while they simmer on the border.“

“The Kikuta seem to be favoring the Otori lords against Takeo?”

“Yes, I’ve heard
Kotaro himself is in Hagi. I believe in the long run, despite his apparent
strength, Arai will not succeed against the Otori. They have a certain
legitimacy to claim the Three Countries, you know, because of their ancestral
link with the emperor’s house. Shigeru’s sword, Jato, was forged and given in
recognition of that, hundreds of years ago.”

He fell silent and a slight smile curved his lips. “But the sword
found Takeo. It did not go to Shoichi or Masahiro.” He turned to her and the
smile deepened. “I’m going to tell you a story. You may know that I met Shigeru
at Yaegahara. I was about twenty-five; he must have been nineteen. I was
working as a spy and secret messenger for the Noguchi, who were allies of the
Otori then. I already knew that they would change sides during the battle and
turn on their former allies, giving the victory to Iida and causing the deaths
of thousands of men. I’ve always been detached from the rights and wrongs of
our trade, but the depths of treachery fascinate me. There is something
appalling about the realization of betrayal that I like to observe. I wanted to
see Otori Shigemori’s face when the Noguchi turned on him.

“So, for this rather base motive, I was there in the thick of the
battle. Most of the time I was invisible. I have to say, there was something
intensely exciting about being in the midst of the fray, unseen. I saw
Shigemori; I saw the expression on his face when he realized all was lost. I
saw him fall. His sword, which was well known and which many desired, flew from
his hands at the moment of death and fell at my feet. I picked it up. It took
on my invisibility and seemed to cleave to my hand. It was still warm from its
master’s grip. It told me that I had to protect it and find its true owner.“

“It spoke to you?”

“That’s the only way I can describe it. After Shigemori died, the
Otori went into a state of mad desperation. The battle raged for another couple
of hours, which I spent looking for Shigeru. I knew him: I’d seen him once
before, a few years earlier, when he was training in the mountains with
Matsuda. It wasn’t until the fighting was over that I came upon him. By then
Iida’s men were searching for him everywhere. If he could be declared dead in
battle, it would be convenient for everyone.

“I found him by a small spring. He was quite alone and was
preparing to take his own life, washing the blood from his face and hands and
scenting his hair and beard with perfume. He had taken off his helmet and
loosened his armor. He seemed as calm as if he were about to bathe in the
spring.

“The sword said to me, ‘This is my master,’ so I called to him,
‘Lord Otori!’ and when he turned I let him see me and held the sword out to
him.

“‘Jato,’ he greeted it, took the sword in both hands, and bowed
deeply. Then he looked at the sword and looked at me and seemed to come out of
the trance he was in.

“I said something like ‘Don’t kill yourself,’ and then, as if the
sword spoke through me, ‘Live and get revenge,’ and he smiled and leaped to his
feet, the sword in his hand. I helped him get away and took him back to his
mother’s house in Hagi. By the time we got there we had become friends.”