Across the Nightingale Floor

by Lian Hearn

  I went from doorway to doorway, ears alert all the time for the tread of feet, the clink of steel. I was not particularly worried about the patrols: I knew I would hear them long before they heard me, and above that, I had the skills of invisibility and the second self. By the time I reached the end of the street and saw the waters of the moat under the moonlight, I had stopped thinking much at all, beyond a satisfaction deep within me that I was Kikuta and doing what I was born to do. Only the Tribe know this feeling.

  On the town side of the moat there was a clump of willow trees, their heavy summer foliage falling right to the water. For defensive purposes they should have been cleared: Maybe some resident of the castle, the lord’s wife or mother, loved their beauty. Under the moonlight their branches looked frozen. There was no wind at all. I slipped between them, crouched down, and looked at the castle for a long time.

  It was bigger than the castles at either Tsuwano or Hagi, but the construction was similar. I could see the faint outline of the baskets against the white walls of the keep behind the second south gate. I had to swim the moat, scale the stone wall, get over the first gate and across the south bailey, climb the second gate and the keep, and climb down to the baskets from above.

  I heard footsteps and shrank into the earth. A troop of guards was approaching the bridge. Another patrol came from the castle, and they exchanged a few words.

  “Any problems?”

  “Just the usual curfew breakers.”

  “Terrible stink!”

  “It’ll be worse tomorrow. Hotter.”

  One group went into the town; the other walked over the bridge and up the steps to the gate. I heard the shout that challenged them, and their reply. The gate creaked as it was unbarred and opened. I heard it slam shut and the footsteps fade away.

  From my position under the willows I could smell the stagnant waters of the moat, and beneath that another stench: of human corruption, of living bodies rotting slowly.

  At the water’s edge were flowering grasses and a few late irises. Frogs croaked and crickets shrilled. The warm air of the night caressed my face. Two swans, unbelievably white, drifted into the path of the moon.

  I filled my lungs with air and slipped into the water, swimming close to the bottom and aiming slightly downstream so that I surfaced under the shadow of the bridge. The huge stones of the moat wall gave natural footholds; my main concern here was being seen against the pale stone. I could not maintain invisibility for more than a couple of minutes at a time. Time that had gone so slowly before now speeded up. I moved fast, going up the wall like a monkey. At the first gate I heard voices, the guards coming back from their circular patrol. I flattened myself against a drainpipe, went invisible, and used the sound of their steps to mask the grapple as I threw it up over the massive overhang of the wall.

  I swung myself up and, staying on the tiled roof, ran around to the south bailey. The baskets with the dying men in them were almost directly over my head. One was calling over and over for water, one moaned wordlessly, and one was repeating the name of the secret god in a rapid monotone that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. The fourth was completely silent. The smell of blood, piss, and shit was terrible. I tried to close my nostrils to it, and my ears to the sounds. I looked at my hands in the moonlight.

  I had to cross above the gatehouse. I could hear the guards within it, making tea and chatting. As the kettle clinked on the iron chain, I used the grapples to climb the keep to the parapet that the baskets were slung from.

  They were suspended by ropes, about forty feet above the ground, each one just large enough to hold a man forced down on his knees, head bent forward, arms tied behind his back. The ropes seemed strong enough to bear my weight, but when I tested one from the parapet, the basket lurched and the man within cried out sharply in fear. It seemed to shatter the night. I froze. He sobbed for a few minutes, then whispered again, “Water! Water!”

  There was no answering sound apart from a dog barking far in the distance. The moon was close to the mountains, about to disappear behind them. The town lay sleeping, calm.

  When the moon had set, I checked the hold of the grapple on the parapet, took out the poison capsules, and held them in my mouth. Then I climbed down the wall, using my own rope and feeling for each foothold on the stone.

  At the first basket I took off my headband, still wet from the river, and could just reach through the weave to hold it to the man’s face. I heard him suck and say something incoherent.

  “I can’t save you,” I whispered, “but I have poison. It will give you a quick death.”

  He pressed his face to the mesh and opened his mouth for it.

  The next man could not hear me, but I could reach the carotid artery where his head was slumped against the side of the basket, and so I silenced his groans with no pain to him.

  I then had to climb again to the parapet to reposition my rope, for I could not reach the other baskets. My arms were aching, and I was all too aware of the flagstones of the yard below. When I reached the third man, the one who had been praying, he was alert, watching me with dark eyes. I murmured one of the prayers of the Hidden and held out the poison capsule.

  He said, “It is forbidden.”

  “Let any sin be on me,” I whispered. “You are innocent. You will be forgiven.”

  As I pushed the capsule into his mouth, with his tongue he traced the sign of the Hidden against my palm. I heard him pray, and then he went silent forever.

  I could feel no pulse at the throat of the fourth, and thought he was already dead, but just to be sure I used the garrote, tightening it around his neck and holding it while I counted the minutes away under my breath.

  I heard the first cock crow. As I climbed back to the parapet the silence of the night was profound. I had stilled the groans and the screams. I thought the contrasting quiet was sure to wake the guards. I could hear my own pulse beat crashing like a drum.

  I went back the way I had come, not using the grapple, but dropping from the walls to the ground, moving even faster than before. Another cock crowed and a third answered. The town would soon be waking. Sweat was pouring from me, and the waters of the moat felt icy. My breath barely held for the swim back, and I surfaced well short of the willow trees, startling the swans. I breathed and dived again.

  I came up on the bank and headed for the willows, meaning to sit there for a few moments to get my breath back. The sky was lightening. I was exhausted. I could feel my concentration and focus slipping. I could hardly believe what I had done.

  To my horror I heard someone already there. It was not a soldier but some outcaste, I thought, a leather worker perhaps, judging by the smell of the tannery that clung to him. Before I could recover my strength enough to go invisible, he saw me, and in that flash of a look I realized he knew what I had done.

  Now I shall have to kill again, I thought, sickened that this time it would not be release but murder. I could smell blood and death on my own hands. I decided to let him live, left my second self beneath the tree, and in an instant was on the other side of the street.

  I listened for a moment, and heard the man speak to my image before it faded.

  “Sir,” he said hesitantly, “forgive me. I’ve been listening to my brother suffer for three days. Thank you. May the secret one be with you and bless you.”

  Then my second self vanished and he cried out in shock and amazement. “An angel!”

  I could hear his rough breathing, almost sobbing, as I ran from doorway to doorway. I hoped the patrols did not catch up with him, hoped he would not speak of what he had seen, trusted that he was one of the Hidden, who take their secrets to the grave.

  The wall around the inn was low enough to leap up. I went back to the privy and the cistern, where I spat out the remaining capsules, and washed my face and hands as if I had just risen. The guard was half awake when I passed him. He mumbled, “Is it day already?”

  “An hour away, still,” I replied.


  “You look pale, Lord Takeo. Have you been unwell?”

  “A touch of the gripes, that’s all.”

  “This damn Tohan food,” he muttered, and we both laughed.

  “Will you have some tea?” he asked. “I’ll wake the maids.”

  “Later. I’ll try and sleep for a while.”

  I slid the door open and stepped into the room. The darkness was just giving way to gray. I could tell by his breathing that Kenji was awake.

  “Where’ve you been?” he whispered.

  “In the privy. I didn’t feel well.”

  “Since midnight?” he said, incredulous.

  I was pulling off my wet clothes and hiding the weapons under the mattress at the same time. “Not that long. You were asleep.”

  He reached out and felt my undergarment. “This is soaking! Have you been in the river?”

  “I told you, I didn’t feel well. Maybe I couldn’t get to the privy in time.”

  Kenji thwacked me hard on the shoulder, and I heard Shigeru wake.

  “What is it?” he whispered.

  “Takeo’s been out all night. I was worried about him.”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” I said. “I just went out for a while. I’ve done it before, in Hagi and Tsuwano.”

  “I know you have,” Kenji said. “But that was Otori country. It’s a lot more dangerous here.”

  “Well, I’m back now.” I slipped under the quilt and pulled it over my head, and almost immediately fell into a sleep as deep and dreamless as death.

  When I woke, it was to the sound of the crows. I had only slept for about three hours, but I felt rested and peaceful. I did not think about the previous night. Indeed, I had no clear memory of it, as though I had acted in a trance. It was one of those rare days of late summer when the sky is a clear light blue and the air soft and warm, with no stickiness. A maid came into the room with a tray of food and tea and, after bowing to the floor and pouring the tea, said quietly, “Lord Otori is waiting for you in the stables. He asks you to join him as soon as possible. And your teacher wishes you to bring drawing materials.”

  I nodded, my mouth full.

  She said, “I will dry your clothes for you.”

  “Get them later,” I told her, not wanting her to find the weapons, and when she left I jumped up, got dressed, and hid the grapples and the garrote in the false bottom of the traveling chest where Kenji had packed them. I took up the pouch with my brushes, and the lacquer box that contained the ink stone, and wrapped them in a carrying cloth. I put my sword in my belt, thought myself into being Takeo, the studious artist, and went out to the stable yard.

  As I passed the kitchen I heard one of the maids whisper, “They all died in the night. People are saying an angel of Death came. . . .”

  I walked on, my eyes lowered, adjusting my gait so that I seemed a little clumsy. The ladies were already on horseback. Shigeru stood in conversation with Abe, who I realized was to accompany us. A young Tohan man stood beside them, holding two horses. A groom held Shigeru’s Kyu and my Raku.

  “Come along, come along,” Abe exclaimed when he saw me. “We can’t wait all day while you laze in bed.”

  “Apologize to Lord Abe,” Shigeru said with a sigh.

  “I am very sorry; there is no excuse at all,” I babbled, bowing low to Abe and to the ladies, trying not to look at Kaede. “I was studying late.”

  Then I turned to Kenji and said deferentially, “I have brought the drawing materials, sir.”

  “Yes, good,” he replied. “You will see some fine works at Terayama, and may even copy them if we have time.”

  Shigeru and Abe mounted, and the groom brought Raku to me. My horse was pleased to see me: He dropped his nose to my shoulder and nuzzled me. I let the movement push me off balance, so that I stumbled slightly. I went to Raku’s right side and pretended to find mounting somewhat of a problem.

  “Let’s hope his drawing skills are greater than his horsemanship,” Abe said derisively.

  “Unfortunately, they are nothing out of the ordinary.” I did not think Kenji’s annoyance with me was feigned.

  I made no reply to either of them, just contented myself with studying Abe’s thick neck as he rode in front of me, imagining how it would feel to tighten the garrote around it or to slide a knife into his solid flesh.

  These dark thoughts occupied me until we were over the bridge and out of the town. Then the beauty of the day began to work its magic on me. The land was healing itself after the ravages of the storm. Morning-glory flowers had opened, brilliant blue, even where the vines were torn down in the mud. Kingfishers flashed across the river, and egrets and herons stood in the shallows. A dozen different dragonflies hovered about us, and orange-brown and yellow butterflies flew up from around the horses’ feet.

  On the flat land of the river plain we rode between bright green rice fields, the plants flattened by the storm but already pushing themselves upright again. Everywhere people were hard at work; even they seemed cheerful despite the storm’s destruction all around them. They reminded me of the people of my village, their indomitable spirit in the face of disaster, their unshakable belief that no matter what might befall them, life was basically good and the world benign. I wondered how many more years of Tohan rule would it take to gouge that belief from their hearts.

  The paddy fields gave way to terraced vegetable gardens, and then, as the path became steeper, to bamboo groves, closing around us with their dim, silver-green light. The bamboo in its turn gave way to pines and cedars, the thick needles underfoot muffling the horses’ tread.

  Around us stretched the impenetrable forest. Occasionally we passed pilgrims on the path, making the arduous journey to the holy mountain. We rode in single file, so conversation was difficult. I knew Kenji was longing to question me about the previous night, but I did not want to talk about it or even to think about it.

  After nearly three hours we came to the small cluster of buildings around the outer gate of the temple. There was a lodging house here for visitors. The horses were taken away to be fed and watered, and we ate the midday meal, simple vegetable dishes prepared by the monks.

  “I am a little tired,” Lady Maruyama said when we had finished eating. “Lord Abe, will you stay here with Lady Shirakawa and myself while we rest for a while?”

  He could not refuse, though he seemed reluctant to let Shigeru out of his sight.

  Shigeru gave the wooden box to me, asking me to carry it up the hill, and I also took my own pack of brushes and ink. The young Tohan man came with us, scowling a little, as though he distrusted the whole excursion, but it must have seemed harmless enough, even to the suspicious. Shigeru could hardly pass by so close to Terayama without visiting his brother’s grave, especially a year after his death and at the time of the Festival of the Dead.

  We began to climb the steep stone steps. The temple was built on the side of the mountain, next to a shrine of great antiquity. The trees in the sacred grove must have been four or five hundred years old, their huge trunks rising up into the canopy, their gnarled roots clinging to the mossy ground like forest spirits. In the distance I could hear monks chanting and the boom of gongs and bells, and beneath these sounds the voice of the forest, the min-min, the splash of the waterfall, the wind in the cedars, birds calling. My high spirits at the beauty of the day gave way to another, deeper feeling; a sense of awe and expectancy, as if some great and wonderful secret were about to be revealed to me.

  We came finally to the second gate, which led into another cluster of buildings where pilgrims and other visitors stayed. Here we were asked to wait and given tea to drink. After a few moments two priests approached us. One was an old man, rather short and frail with age, but with bright eyes and an expression of great serenity. The other was much younger, stern-faced and muscular.

  “You are very welcome here, Lord Otori,” the old man said, making the Tohan man’s face darken even more. “It was with great sorrow that we buried Lord Takeshi.
You have come, of course, to visit the grave.”

  “Stay here with Muto Kenji,” Shigeru said to the soldier, and he and I followed the old priest to the graveyard, where the tombstones stood in rows beneath the huge trees. Someone was burning wood, and the smoke drifted beneath the trunks, making blue rays out of the sunlight.

  The three of us knelt in silence. After a few moments the younger priest came with candles and incense and passed them to Shigeru, who placed them before the stone. The sweet fragrance floated around us. The lamps burned steadily, since there was no wind, but their flames could hardly be seen in the brightness of the sun. Shigeru also took two objects from his sleeve—a black stone like the ones from the seashore around Hagi, and a straw horse such as a child might play with—and placed these on the grave.

  I remembered the tears he had shed the first night I had met him. Now I understood his grief, but neither of us wept.

  After a while the priest rose, touching Shigeru on the shoulder, and we followed him to the main building of this remote country temple. It was made of wood, cypress and cedar, which had faded over time to silver-gray. It did not look large, but its central hall was perfectly proportioned, giving a sense of space and tranquillity, leading the gaze inwards to where the golden statue of the Enlightened One seemed to hover among the candle flames as if in Paradise.

  We loosened our sandals and stepped up into the hall. Again the young monk brought incense, and we placed it at the golden feet of the statue. Kneeling to one side of us, he began to chant one of the sutras for the dead.

  It was dim inside, and my eyes were dazzled by the candles, but I could hear the breathing of others within the temple, beyond the altar, and as my vision adjusted to the darkness I could see the shapes of monks sitting in silent meditation. I realized the hall was much bigger than I had at first thought, and there were many monks here, possibly hundreds.

  Even though I was raised among the Hidden, my mother took me to the shrines and temples of our district, and I knew a little of the teachings of the Enlightened One. I thought now, as I had often thought before, that people when they pray look and sound the same. The peace of this place pierced my soul. What was I doing here, a killer, my heart bent on revenge?