Emperor of the Eight Islands

by Lian Hearn

  “Don’t!” Shika said, suddenly knowing what was going to happen. “He should not!”

  The monk was very handsome, with fine, regular features and smooth, almost golden skin. He hesitated for a moment and then put the mask to his face.

  Immediately he began screaming. He tried to take the mask off, his hands tearing vainly at it, but it clung to him. Gessho ran forward to help him, holding him still, pulling with all his great strength, but with no success. The young man broke away from him, shouting and crying. He rammed his head against the wall, and then, falling, on the floor. The Abbot stood, a movement shocking in itself, and stretched out his hand, speaking solemn words of power that unlocked rocks and summoned the dead back to life, but nothing shifted the mask until Shika went to the writhing figure and touched the polished surface. It slid into his hand. It was burning hot; it had only ever felt cool before. He felt its distress, its panic and pain, the fall from the cliff, the broken leg, the cut throat, the ebbing blood. Nothing is ever lost, it whispered to him. It changes and takes a new form. All suffering mutates and persists.

  The young monk stared up at them. The skin of his face was stripped as if he had fallen into a fire, eyebrows and eyelashes singed away, cheeks seared purple, lips blistered. He wept helpless tears.

  “Eisei, my poor boy, forgive me,” the Prince Abbot cried. “I did not know it would be so extreme.”

  Even Gessho looked shaken. “Your Holiness might have tried it. What would have happened then?”

  “Take Eisei away and tend to him,” the Prince Abbot said, his voice unsteady with shock. When the monks had done this he asked Gessho, “Who still wields this ancient forest magic?”

  “I don’t know. I have never seen such a thing.”

  The Prince Abbot handed the brocade bag to Shika and watched him put the mask away.

  “This is what I think happened, Kazumaru—do you still call yourself that?”

  “Now my name is Shikanoko,” Shika replied.

  “Of course. The deer’s child. As I was saying, you disappeared a year ago and during that time you met a mountain sorcerer who corrupted you with dark magic. He made you the mask from the skull of a stag, perhaps one you had killed, a wise old creature that bequeathed its power to you. But who else was involved? This mask has female power as well as male. Who was the woman? Was it the same one who bewitched Kiyoyori? That would be fascinating beyond words. Where is she now?”

  “As Gessho said, she burned to death,” Shikanoko said, disturbed by the accuracy of the Prince Abbot’s insights.

  “If that is true, we have nothing to worry about. But if she escaped, it might be a cause for concern. This is a very powerful object.”

  Shikanoko felt the power latent within him but had no idea what to do with it. There was something very attractive, almost calming, about the priest’s acknowledgment of the mask.

  The Prince Abbot studied him with shrewd eyes as if he could read his mind.

  “You do understand that I must take control of this sort of sorcery? We will find its author in the spring. In the meantime you will stay with me. Together we will discover exactly how much you know and what can be done with the mask. In return I will restore Kumayama to you. We will send a claim to the Miboshi and it will be confirmed in the courts of justice in Minatogura. In the coming war your uncle will be overthrown along with the Kuromori lord and all the Kakizuki.”

  Somewhere in the distance a cock crowed, followed by another. A bell began to toll from the innermost hall of the temple.

  “My lord, it is nearly dawn,” Gessho said.

  “You may tell me your decision when we meet again. Give me the mask. I will take great care of it. I know you will not leave without it.”

  “And if I refuse to cooperate with you?” Shika said as he reluctantly handed it over.

  “You will be put to death and the mask will be destroyed. That will be your uncle’s reward. But I don’t believe you are willing to die yet.”

  Gessho took him to a small room, where a thin mat lay on the wooden boards, and told him to lie down. Despite his exhaustion Shika could not sleep. Somewhere the bell tolled again and he heard the pad of feet as the monks assembled for prayer. He saw again the young monk’s ruined face and felt the terror and power of the mask. He realized with some fear how little he knew of it or how to control it. Deep within him something—whatever it was that Sesshin had transmitted to him—continued to quiver. It had to be kept hidden, but he had to learn how to use it. He knew the Prince Abbot was right. He was not yet willing to die, and he could not bear the thought that the mask would be destroyed. And part of him was already under the sway of the Prince Abbot’s seductive personality. The priest’s attention and interest reassured and flattered him.

  Shika had just come to the conclusion that he had nowhere else to go when he fell into a deep slumber, only to be woken abruptly after what felt like mere minutes. It was morning; a gray snowy light filled the room.

  A monk was shaking him. “Get up! Our lord Abbot wishes to speak to you.”

  The Prince Abbot sat in the same room, with the same monks around him, apart from the young man whom the mask had burned. Previously he had hidden his unease beneath an air of calm, but now he let Shika see his rage.

  “You are already working against me? You dared to strike, taking advantage of my lenience and generosity?”

  “My lord?” he said.

  “How did you do it? How did you spirit the boy away?”

  “I don’t understand. I thought about what I should do and then I fell asleep. How could I do anything else? Your Holiness has the mask. I was alone with your men watching me all night. Anyway, what boy are you talking about?”

  “Kiyoyori’s son.”

  Shika could not hide his surprise. “You had Tsumaru? It was you who took him?”

  “I had him brought here. I thought to persuade his father to send you and the old man to me. Now that I have you in my hands I intended to return him, but while I was occupied with questioning you last night, someone stole him away.”

  “It was not I,” Shika said.

  “You did not perform some magic that made the guards’ eyes sightless or the boy invisible?”

  “I have no idea how to do such things! Did you think I could?”

  The Prince Abbot leaned forward and studied him. “Well, I believe you. And I think you are capable of more than you have ever dreamed. That will be our work together. I take it you have agreed to serve me?”

  It was this, not the threats or the promise of Kumayama or the granting of his life, but his desire to harness this power, that persuaded Shikanoko to become the Prince Abbot’s disciple in Ryusonji that winter, while ice froze the lake and the river, and snow blanketed the capital and the mountains.

  13

  TAMA

  The island pavilion had been designed by Tama’s mother, a retreat on hot summer days, filled with poetry, music, and laughter. It had been Tama’s favorite place when she was a girl. Now it had been her cold, damp prison all winter. Every day she listened for her son’s voice, for some sign that he had been returned alive, but as the weeks went by she began to feel she would never see him again. Often she wept in grief and rage, but only the guards who kept watch outside on the tiny veranda all night heard her, and they were unmoved.

  One morning, early in the new year, after the snow melted, she was woken at dawn by an earthquake. It growled like an angry beast approaching from afar, its roar growing louder and louder. The doors and screens rattled. A shutter broke loose and began banging like a drum. There were cries and shouts as the household awoke, the neighing of startled horses and frantic barking of dogs.

  The guards took the boat and poled back to the shore. She watched them leave, saw the boat ground halfway to the shore, noticed the sudden flow of water toward the lake’s outlet in the southeast. She dressed quickly, hiding her prayer beads in her sleeve and slipping the golden statues into a small bag. Her dagger she kept on her
day and night, hidden under her clothes. By this time the water had receded even more. Stranded fish were flapping and struggling in the mud and stones of the lake floor. The rock wall that contained it had cracked and the water was pouring through it.

  Tama walked away from her island prison leaving delicate footsteps in the mud like a fox woman’s. Fire had broken out in the stables and the main residence and in the confusion no one saw her go.

  Houses were destroyed all the way to the coast. Tama became one of the many homeless people seeking refuge, and at the port of Shimaura she traded one of the statues for a berth on a temple ship, bound for Minatogura.

  The winds were fresh from the southwest and the sea rough. Many passengers were afflicted with seasickness, but Tama, even though she had never been on a ship before, felt as well as she ever had in her life, filled with a sense of freedom and excitement. She stood on deck hardly noticing the cold, watching the pine-covered islands, dotted here and there with the vermilion posts of a shrine. Sometimes they passed by close enough to see fragile white blossoms on the plum trees.

  A group of women who were going on a pilgrimage befriended her. One of them had already shaved her head and was about to enter the convent at Muenji.

  “It was founded by Miboshi Aritomo’s wife, Lady Masa, before she died, as a refuge for widows and other women: some are fleeing from violent husbands, some have been turned out of their own land and are seeking justice from the Miboshi, some, like me, simply want to retire from the world and find peace and grace before death.”

  “I am seeking justice,” Tama said. “My first husband lives in Minatogura and serves the Miboshi. I was forced to leave him and marry his older brother, one of the Kakizuki. He treated me very badly, took over the estate I inherited from my family, and kept me a prisoner. I want to recover what is mine.”

  “Including your rightful husband, I suppose,” said Jun, the woman who was going to become a nun.

  “I long for him day and night,” Tama said. “I have never stopped longing for him. Also, my son was kidnapped and I have not seen him all winter. I don’t know if he is alive or dead. I need someone to intercede for me.”

  The women sighed in sympathy and wet their sleeves with their tears. Plovers cried mournfully from the shore.

  “How pitiful,” Jun said. “Come with us to Muenji and we will take care of you and support your cause.”

  Tama watched the moon rise and set, seeing how it grew fuller every night, and on the fifth morning they came to the great port city where the Miboshi family held sway.

  The women’s temple was a little way out of town on the top of a hill overlooking the port. To the south lay the Encircled Sea, to the east the vast ocean where huge whales spouted and beyond which, in distant lands, men the size of giants hunted seals and wolves. Tama had been to the capital, Miyako, a few times, but Minatogura seemed even larger, and, from her vantage point on the hill, she could see clearly that it was a town preparing for war. Warriors thronged the streets, long horse lines stretched in every open space, armorers, fletchers, and swordsmiths worked day and night, their fires blazing, their hammers ringing. Straw targets were set up in gardens and on the riverbank and the angry whining of bulb-ended humming arrows filled the air. Flags and banners fluttered everywhere in the dazzling white of the Miboshi clan.

  At Muenji, Tama was given shelter. Jun related her story to the Abbess, and Tama was duly summoned and interrogated by a slender, graceful woman, much younger than Tama had expected. She thought the Abbess must be a former noblewoman; she had obviously been well educated, could read and write, and had a careful and astute intelligence. She promised to make inquiries, and a few days later Tama was called once again to her room.

  “I have verified all you told me and have discovered your husband is living at the house of Yamada Saburo Keisaku, his father’s cousin. Masachika has become his adopted son and is to marry Keisaku’s daughter, as soon as she is old enough.”

  “He is to marry her?” Tama felt weak with shock.

  “Well, take courage. He is not married yet. He is, however, claiming the estate, currently held by his older brother, which you say is yours.”

  “Matsutani. It is my family home. After my brother’s death, it was given to me, and my husband—without me what right does either of them have?”

  “They have the right of being male,” the Abbess said drily. “Whose idea was it to wrench you from one brother and give you to another?”

  “Their father’s, but mine agreed to it.”

  “I hope they are both atoning in Hell for their blind, arrogant wickedness. But what do you want to do next?”

  “I want Masachika back, I want my land, and I want to know if my son is alive or dead,” Tama said.

  “Where is your son now?”

  “He was taken as a hostage to Ryusonji. I don’t really understand why. My husband, Kiyoyori, became involved in sorcery, with a woman. The Prince Abbot learned about it and wanted to bend Kiyoyori to his will. But Kiyoyori would never be swayed like that. He would sooner let his son die. I thought, if someone from the Miboshi were to approach the Prince Abbot, he might return Tsumaru to me, if he is still alive.”

  “Is he your only child?”

  “There is a stepdaughter, Hina. She has always been cold toward me. Her father spoils her, because she reminds him of his wife who died.”

  The Abbess looked at Tama with her shrewd eyes. “Are you sure you are not misjudging Lord Kiyoyori? Is no reconciliation possible? It is my duty to ask you this. The bonds between husband and wife spring from deep laws of destiny and should not be broken lightly.”

  “I seek to restore a bond that was broken,” Tama said. “The one with my original husband.”

  “I will send a message to him,” the Abbess said.

  Tama joined in the activities of the convent while she waited nervously, but even in prayer and meditation among the calm-eyed women her mind would not be still. She had not seen Masachika for seven years. She had aged, she had borne a child. Would he remember the young girl she had been, their nights of sweetness?

  Two days later, around midday, Jun came and told her to walk in the garden, the outer one where visitors were permitted. She saw three horses outside the gate and two men waiting for him. So, he was already within somewhere.

  Her heart was beating uncontrollably as she walked along the stone path toward a small thatched hut that overlooked the lake. It was a bright spring day though the wind came from the east, giving a chill to the air. Cherry trees surrounded the lake, pink-budded but still a week from full flowering.

  Masachika stood at the entrance to the hut. She studied him greedily. His clothes were new and made of fine silk; he wore a small black hat on his head. He had filled out; he was fully a man now, both like and unlike his older brother, taller and more handsome.

  At the end of the path, boulders formed a step and yellow flowers blossomed between them. She caught their fragrance as she fell to her knees.

  “Lord Masachika! My husband!”

  He bent and lifted her by both hands and guided her into the interior. Then she was in his arms, remembering his smell, his hair, his skin. Neither of them spoke.

  Finally he released her. They sat side by side on silk cushions. He said, “Why are you here? Is my brother dead?”

  “No, although, forgive me for saying it, I have wished many times he were. Terrible events occurred at Matsutani. He imprisoned me all winter. There was an earthquake and I ran away.” When he said nothing, Tama went on. “I know you were in contact with some of our old retainers—Enryo and his wife.”

  “Kiyoyori had them killed, I believe,” Masachika said.

  “Somehow he was forewarned that he would be ambushed in the hunt. He made Enryo ride his horse and take the arrow that was intended for him.” She remembered the desperate woman running. “His wife tried to stop the attack. She was tortured to death.”

  “He has become cruel,” Masachika observed.

>   “Cruel and selfish. There is—was—a woman, too. She was a sorceress, and so was the old man.” Tama could hear her voice rising and stopped abruptly.

  “What old man? Calm down, tell me slowly.”

  “Master Sesshin.”

  “My grandfather’s friend? Is he still alive?”

  She told him everything; he asked many questions, and when her account was completed he sat gazing at the lake, deep in thought.

  Tama said, hearing the pleading in her voice and despising it, “In my mind and spirit I never stopped being your wife.”

  “Seven years is a long time and a lot has happened.” Masachika did not look at her. “I was sent away against my will, but I have found a good life here. I am grateful now to my father for allying me with the Miboshi, with the side who are going to be the victors. My adoptive father is a fine man, very wealthy. He has treated me generously and I am betrothed to his daughter.”

  “But I was told she is only a child! She cannot give you what I once gave you, and will give you again, now, here, if you want.”

  He tried to joke. “You would cause the poor nuns some distress.”

  Tama plunged on. “You will take me to your home? We can live together? If only you knew how I have longed for you. Haven’t you longed for me?”

  “When we were separated,” Masachika said quietly, “it was as though a limb had been wrenched from me. It would have been easier to bear if you had died. I would not have had to endure imagining you in my brother’s arms, with all the pain and humiliation that brought me. I hated him more than I would have thought possible, and when I heard you had given him a son I hated you, too.” He gave her a quick glance and then resumed his study of the lake.

  “What could I do? I was helpless.”

  “I thought you should have killed yourself with your mother’s dagger rather than submit to him.”

  “I thought of it,” Tama said, “and I thought about killing him, too. But I had the estate to look after. I had Matsutani.”