Emperor of the Eight Islands: Book 1 in the Tale of Shikanoko (The Tale of Shikanoko series) (20 page)

He considered I betrayed him; he regretted sparing my life.

The werehawks fluttered and cried around his head. When they needed to rest they sat on the mare’s back, preening themselves and croaking and grumbling to each other. Risu hated them and often bucked or swung her head around to bite in an attempt to dislodge them. They fluttered upward, squawking in surprise and outrage, and then returned immediately to their roost.

Shika did not know how the Prince Abbot communicated with them, but from the first day he set his mind to understand them. How was it done? Did he have to become like a bird himself or did he have to use some deeper knowledge? Did all Nature understand itself, the pine trees and the crows, the hawfinches and the berries, the fox, the rabbit, the hare? Was there some vast web of communication that joined everything? And if so, why should men stand outside it? The stag mask must have given him access to something like that; the power of the forest, Shisoku had called it. If he wore the mask, would he understand the werehawks?

At first he thought they disliked him. After all, they had attacked him at Kumayama—he still had the scar—and before that he had shot and killed one at Matsutani. But after a while he realized they were trying in some obscure birdlike fashion to ingratiate themselves with him, even to please him. One in particular, which had a gold feather in its left wing, often sat on his shoulder and made remarks in his ear. He called it Kon, and the other Zen, for its wicked eyes and arrogant manner reminded him of Akuzenji.

They showed him the route to follow, along the eastern edge of the lake, and every night one or other of them flew off to the south, to report back to the Prince Abbot. He resented that they were spying on him, but he knew they were not to blame for it and he treated them well, scratching their heads, feeding them the grain with which he had been supplied, listening to their strange talk, trying to decipher it. They seemed to know something about him, as though they could smell within him the sweet fiery nugget that Sesshin had fed him, and wanted to partake of it.

He meditated on that power, determined to learn how to use it, following the rhythm of the horses’ pace. He noticed with his conscious mind the lush spring landscape, the fresh green of the new leaves, the flooded rice fields that reflected the sky, aware of his own youth and energy, excited by all that lay before him, glad to be free of the stifling atmosphere of Ryusonji. Farmers worked in the fields, a few monks and merchants passed along the road, all making the most of the fine days before the onset of the plum rains. There were no signs of battle. The Miboshi had confined their advance to the capital and were consolidating their conquests in the east. He wondered what had happened at Matsutani, and his own estate of Kumayama. Whose hands were they in now? Presumably his uncle had been rewarded for handing him over, and had allied himself with the victors.

One day I will get it back
, he vowed.

He followed the Prince Abbot’s command and rode fast, sleeping for a few hours at night in the woods, using Nyorin’s saddle as a pillow. The werehawks led him away from the lakeside road, through rice fields, skirting the small town of Aomizu. He had never been here before; in the distance to the east the mountains rose, their highest peaks still snowcapped, and he knew that somewhere to the south lay the course of a stream leading him to the pass through to the Darkwood.

One afternoon he came to the road between Aomizu and Rinrakuji. It was a little before sunset. He did not know if he should turn east or west, so he let the horses graze for a while in a small grove and waited for the werehawks to show him.

Kon had flown toward the west, and suddenly returned, landed on Shika’s shoulder, and said distinctly, “Prince Yoshimori!” Zen gave a triumphant squawk, flew upward from Risu’s back, and settled on an overhanging branch, peering expectantly.

Shika crept toward the edge of the road, bow in hand.

Two figures were hurrying along the road from the direction of Aomizu. One was definitely a child; the other turned and looked back and he realized it was a girl, and that there were two men following her, flitting in and out of sight like wolves pursuing deer, like the wolf that had driven him to Shisoku. There was no one else around. She was running desperately now, dragging the child by the hand, tripping and stumbling. They were closing in on her.

He heard one call, “I’ll take the girl; the boy is for you. Then we’ll swap.”

She stopped and spun around to face them. She was carrying a bundle, but she thrust it into the child’s hands and pulled out a dagger. She had a small, light bow on her back.

Shika thought he could gallop past, seize the child, and escape. The girl was not important. Who the men were he had no idea; they wore no emblems, crests, or armor. But he could see their faces, their undisguised lust and greed. The girl’s courage, her defiant stance, spoke to him. At that moment he decided to save her life.

He took the arrows from the quiver on his back, drew the bow, and shot rapidly twice. Both arrows found their mark, one in each naked throat. The look of astonishment, the useless clutching at the shaft, the weakening of muscles and sinews, the loss of blood, all took place in a few brief moments. Both men fell dead.

The girl turned and looked at him, her face white. She did not threaten him with the knife. It was clear she knew she had no defense against his arrows, but she drew the boy closer, the blade at his throat.

Shika saw she was planning to kill Yoshimori and then herself. Her desperation and her resolve touched him even more deeply.

“Don’t be afraid of me,” he called. “I will help you.”

And he felt Sesshin’s power come to life within him, and knew he was going to defy the Prince Abbot.

19

HINA

Yukikuni no Takaakira was riding through the capital looking for somewhere to live. Lord of the Snow Country, he was close to Lord Miboshi Aritomo, adviser, confidant, and as much of a friend as anyone could be to that taciturn and suspicious man, who had been deeply scarred by the loss of his family and his years of exile. The Minatogura lord’s temper was unpredictable, his nature unforgiving, his favor, once forfeited, lost forever. He never forgot an insult or an offense, never overlooked a mistake. Yet Takaakira respected him and even loved him, admiring his fortitude, his perseverance, and the unexpected high ideals that had led him to establish courts of law that demanded written records, title deeds to estates, signed testimonies to exploits in battle, and a system to hand out rewards fairly.

Takaakira saw, with sorrow, one beautiful house after another reduced to ashes, shrouds of smoke still hanging over them. Perhaps alone among the Miboshi, who now occupied the capital, he regretted the destruction of the Kakizuki. As a youth he had visited the city many times and had reveled in the richness of its art, poetry, music, and dance. He admired with all his heart the flamboyant heroism of the Kakizuki warriors in the recent battle, who had sallied out to meet the Miboshi, one by one, as men used to, according to the old songs, calling out their names, demanding a worthy opponent. Under Aritomo’s orders they had been brought down by a hail of arrows from an anonymous and united force. This new form of warfare had broken their spirit. They no longer understood how to fight. The men fled with Lord Keita, presumably to regroup at Rakuhara or some other stronghold in the west, abandoning their palaces and their residences, their exquisite gardens, now in the first flush of spring, and in most cases their wives and children.

Lord Aritomo, who understood the nature of both power and revenge, had ordered these to be put to death. Takaakira had admired his lord’s ruthlessness while deeply regretting the extinguishing of young, innocent lives. And that, he reflected, was an essential part of his nature. He admired so easily—human qualities of courage or kindness, artistic talent, the beauty of nature, all the poignancy of existence expressed in poetry—and he felt loss so deeply, sometimes unbearably. He was riven by the sadness of things, and these days, in the defeated city, had been more raw and unendurable than anything he had experienced in his life. He had never felt so agonizingly alive, never longed so much for the indifference and tranquillity of death.

The slaughter, now, was mostly over. Aritomo had moved into Lord Keita’s palace, which had survived undamaged. Preparations were under way for the crowning of the new emperor. Courts were being set up to share out the spoils of war. Miboshi elders were moving into official positions formerly occupied by their Kakizuki counterparts. Takaakira was one of these; his title now was Senior Counselor of the Left, but before he could begin carrying out his duties he had to find a house.

On the edge of the city, below Rokujo, on the western side, he came upon a wall around a garden, neglected but, to his eye, not unpleasing. Wildflowers and long grass grew around the gate, which stood half-open, covered in morning glory vines. He dismounted and gave the reins of his horse to his companion, Gensaku, and walked quietly inside.

A long, low building of excellent proportions stood on his left, looking out to the southwest. The garden was overgrown, the shrubs straggling, the pebbles and the pond choked with weeds. A cat had been sunning itself on a large, flat rock near the house. At the sound of his footsteps it lifted its head, leaped from the rock, and vanished under the veranda.

Apart from the cat, there did not seem to be a single living being. Dust lay, mostly undisturbed, on the veranda. He noticed the cat’s paw prints and, lit by the afternoon sun, a child’s. He felt regret. He did not want to shed blood in the place he had already decided he was going to take for his own. He considered calling Gensaku and waiting outside until the deed was done, but something prevented him. He stepped inside.

He could not see anyone, all the shutters were closed and the interior dark, but he thought he could hear the child’s light tread as it flitted from room to room. The pursuit excited him; it was like a childhood game. Finally he could see its eyes, shining in the half-light like a cat’s. He had cornered it. He grabbed it. It made no resistance; in fact, it seemed to be clutching something, its hands were not free. It did not cry out or struggle as he carried it out onto the veranda. He must call Gensaku and have him take it away and put it to death.

On the veranda the sunlight fell on a girl’s face. She looked at him with a grave, resigned expression, but she did not speak. When had she last eaten? he wondered. She was holding a box in both hands and under her arm a folded text. He pried open her hands and took the box, but when he went to open it she said sternly, “No!”

He put the box down and took the text from her. It seemed to be a treatise on herbs and medicine, esoteric perhaps. His interest was piqued. He had read all the works of the yin-yang masters and had dabbled a little in secret arts.

“Why do you have this?” he asked.

She sighed in a way so knowing and so mature, he was surprised and touched.
She knows she will die. Yet she cannot be more than ten years old. How can one so young be so adult and so aware?

At that moment he seemed to be shown all the years of her life as they might have been: growing up, learning to read and write, becoming a woman, marrying. Was all that going to be extinguished in a moment on his orders? And then he saw the alternative: he would save her. It was so simple, it almost made him gasp; simple and perfect. She would be Murasaki to his Genji. He had always dreamed of having a child he would bring up, like a daughter, to become a wife, a companion who shared his interests, who would be his equal in intellect and learning, who would love him. He imagined the clothes he would dress her in, the books he would give her, the games of incense matching and the poetry that he would teach her.

“What is your name? Don’t be afraid of me. I’m not going to hurt you. I’ll never let anyone hurt you, I promise.”

She continued to regard him unwaveringly, then the ghost of a smile flickered over her lips.

Takaakira thought,
She trusts me
, and a feeling of joy came over him.

“Tell me your name,” he urged.

“I don’t have a grown-up name,” she said. “Everyone’s always called me Hina.”

“That’s charming. And your father’s name?”

“I don’t remember.”

It would be easy enough to find out. But on second thought it might be better not to know. If she was from some high-ranking or important Kakizuki family it would mean a far more serious act of disobedience on his part. He guessed her family were provincial warriors who kept a residence in the capital but lived on their country estate. The house was pleasant but not grand, on the west side and too far from the Imperial Palace to be fashionable—and luckily for him, hidden from prying eyes.

“Stay here,” he told Hina, and went to the gate to give instructions to Gensaku, to find serving women and cleaners, to put one of his men in charge of running the household, and to buy food, tea, and wine. Then he added casually, “There was a girl hiding in the house. Her father died fighting for us and she fled here. I will look after her for the time being until we can find her family. But there’s no need to spread this widely.”

Gensaku bowed his head and designated one of his soldiers to inspect the house and find out what was needed.

Takaakira returned to the veranda. Hina had placed the box on the floor and was kneeling before it, her lips moving in prayer as if she were thanking it. A slight chill came over him; there was something uncanny about her, as if she were a fox wife or had fallen from the stars. Yet this only made her more appealing to him.

When he approached her she sat back on her heels and smiled at him. It was a little hesitant, but nonetheless it was a true smile.

“Father promised to teach me to read,” she said. “But he has not returned.”

“I don’t think he ever will,” Takaakira said quietly, grieving for a man he had not known, an enemy.

The smile faded and her eyes shone with tears.