Lord of the Darkwood

by Lian Hearn

  The mare lay down one cold winter night and did not get up again. The death rekindled Shika’s grief and he wept bitterly. The two stallions mourned like humans.

  Something about Ibara’s presence goaded Shikanoko. She was like the thorn she had named herself. She pricked and scratched away at the armor he was building around himself. Perhaps it was that she often talked of Hina to the horse Tan, and then she would mention Tan’s twin, his own son, Takeyoshi. So he heard of the baby’s birth, and Hina’s beauty, her great intelligence, her kindness, and it filled him with a longing to see them both.

  It was not magic or sorcery, nor did she do it deliberately, but little by little he awakened and began to emerge from grief. He took out Jato and cleaned and polished it, rebound his bow, Kodama, and carved new arrows, fletching them with white winter plumage.

  They were in the northernmost part of the Darkwood, right up near the Snow Country. The snow was heavier than Shika had ever seen. After blizzards they had to dig their way out of the hut. The clearing, the grave, every branch and twig, every boulder and rock was blanketed in white.

  For weeks they were confined inside together. On the worst nights they brought the horses inside, too, otherwise they would have been buried under the snow. Shika’s intention had been, when winter came, to continue his meditation and fasting in the open, which was really a slow way of killing himself, fading back into the forest, ceasing to live in a world so full of pain. But perversely his body showed signs of wanting to live. It became hungry and demanded food; suddenly it slept again, in the deep, healing sleep of boyhood. His mind awoke, too. His hours of solitary meditation had revealed to him, among other things, how little he knew. He understood nothing about how the world worked, what Aritomo’s motives were, why the Miboshi and the Kakizuki fought each other, what it meant to be a warrior, what the nature of revenge, such as Ibara desired, was. He recalled his own upbringing, his father’s death, up here in the north; the loss of the bow, Ameyumi; his uncle’s brutality. And now he had a son, Takeyoshi, whom he was condemning to the same orphan state.

  He saw how impetuous and thoughtless his actions had been, all his life, how he had been used and manipulated by others, for both good and bad, in his need for approval and affection, in his quest to redress his own pain.

  On days when the snow fell heavily, there was nothing to do but talk. Eisei had received the usual education of a monk, could read and write, and knew sutras and other holy writings by heart. He had also absorbed, over the years, the songs and ballads that were sung in the outer courtyards at Ryusonji, and he often recited these: long, intricate tales of heroes, warriors, powerful priests, warring clans, child emperors. Nagatomo and Shika had shared the rudimentary education of provincial warriors. They could read and write, and knew the history of their clan and the legends of Kumayama, but they had never learned how to conduct a careful argument or correct a false idea. Ibara could read a little, write in women’s script, and calculate. She knew a great deal about her hometown, Akashi, and the way the free port and its merchants operated. Since she did not defer to any of them, dressed like a man, and usually spoke like one, they forgot she was a woman. Three of them were born in the same year. Nagatomo was a year older.

  One evening, Ibara said, “Takaakira, the man who employed me to look after Lady Hina, was called the Lord of the Snow Country. I suppose his estates were not far from here?”

  “We are alongside them,” Nagatomo replied. “They begin on the eastern edge of the Darkwood and extend far to the north.”

  Shika recalled the day Eisei had told him of Takaakira’s death. He had not known then that it was on Hina’s account. Now he felt a new interest in the man who, in disobeying Aritomo, had saved Hina’s life and paid for it with his own.

  “What sort of a man was he?” he asked Ibara.

  “In truth, I hardly spoke to him, and then only about Hina. He knew a great deal about all sorts of things; he wrote poetry. There were two women whom he arranged to instruct Hina in history, music, and so on. He talked more to them, about her progress and her timetables. I had no idea a child could absorb so much. It used to worry me sometimes. I had to make sure she went outside from time to time, even though he didn’t really approve. He wanted her to keep her pale complexion.”

  “He had a reputation for courage,” Nagatomo said.

  “I heard him claim once he was an adept,” Eisei added. “There must be some strange esoteric practices in the Snow Country. He believed Yoshimori was the true emperor and he was going to tell Aritomo that on the day he died, and plead for your life and the Princess’s. I suppose he never got the chance.”

  Ibara had a remote expression on her face as if she was dwelling on the past. “He adored her,” she said finally. “I’ve never seen a man so obsessed.”

  Shika was surprised at the strong emotion that welled up in him, part jealousy, part affront, but also, mingled in, gratitude and relief. Before he met Ibara, he had assumed Hina had died in the massacre of the Kakizuki women and children. Now Ibara was convinced she had not drowned. But where had she gone? What had happened to her?

  “Yet she was only a child,” he said. “And how old was he?”

  “Well over thirty, I would imagine,” Ibara replied. “She was about eleven years old. He intended to make her his wife—but he had not touched her,” she added, maybe noticing Shika’s face.

  The shutters rattled as the wind howled against them. The snow fell with the lightest of sounds, like insects swarming.

  * * *

  On sunny days, when the snow did not fall, they rode out through the forest—no longer the dark wood but gleaming white. The horses plunged through the deep snow, snorting with excitement. Gen was light enough to run over the frozen surface. They took their bows and hunted hares and squirrels. Sometimes they saw wolf tracks. Every now and then, Shika caught sight of his antlered shadow, blue-black on the snowy ground. Each time he felt the shock anew.

  Will I ever be rid of it?

  As spring approached, the snow fell with rain mixed in. The icicles that clung to the roof began to drip in the sun. The stream melted and the water roared with its new fierce flow. The deer dropped their antlers. Nagatomo and Ibara collected them, polishing them. Fawns were born, and bounded after their mothers on long, delicate legs.

  The short summer brought biting flies and heavy humid air. Violent thunderstorms crackled round the mountain peaks. In the autumn, drums sounded from far away, giving a rhythm to their own dances. Another winter passed: the same deep drifts of snow, the same long conversations in the smoky hut. They saw no one else and began to forget they were fugitives. No one ventured so deep into the forest, or so they thought, until one day in early spring when Nagatomo returned from collecting water, saying, “Am I going mad and hearing things, or is someone beating a drum in the distance?”

  Once he mentioned it, they all heard it, a dull, monotonous pounding on a solitary drum. It stopped for a while, then started up again. It was the wrong time of year for the drum festivals and, in truth, the playing did not sound skillful.

  “Someone practicing?” Ibara suggested.

  After the drumming had persisted for a full day and a half, Shika said, “I’m going to see what it is.”

  The Burnt Twins exchanged a swift look, and said together, “We should go.”

  “You still act as if it matters whether I live or die,” Shika said, with amusement.

  “It matters to us,” Nagatomo said.

  Shika was touched, though he did not show it. “Well, you can come with me. Ibara, do you mind keeping guard here?”

  The drumbeat was halting and uncertain, yet there was something compelling about it. The mask responded to it in some way. He felt the rhythm pass through his skull and reverberate within the antlers.

  The snowmelt filled the streams and the trees were just beginning to put on their first green sheen. Frogs rejoiced and birds sang, skirmished, mated in their urge to raise young ones before the sho
rt summer ended. The horses trotted eagerly, nipping at one another and bucking occasionally for the sheer joy of being alive.

  On the edge of the forest, where the huge trees gave way to bamboo groves and then to coppice, the stream widened into a marshy lake. Sedge and susuki reeds grew around it; a snipe took off at their approach with a sudden cry of alarm.

  A shaggy northern pony, dun colored with a brown mane and tail, threw up its head from where it had been grazing and whinnied loudly. The drumbeat stopped abruptly. A young boy, about ten years old, got to his feet, took one look at the antlered man on the white horse, and ran away, shouting to the pony to come to him. But he was slowed by the drum and Nagatomo easily caught up with him before he could reach his mount.

  He tried to lean over and scoop up boy and drum together, but his horse was spooked by the drum’s hollow sound against its neck, and shied, throwing its rider. Nagatomo fell to the ground, still holding the boy, the silk covering slipping from his face.

  When he stood, the boy looked up at his ruined features but did not say a word. Nagatomo’s horse ran back to the others. Eisei seized its reins. The boy’s eyes followed it, he saw Eisei’s black-covered face, and then he saw Shika. He tried to wriggle out of Nagatomo’s grasp, not to escape but to throw himself facedown on the ground.

  “Kamisama, kamisama,” he wailed. “Please help me!”

  Shika dismounted and told him to sit up. It saddened him to see the fear and shock in the boy’s face.

  “I am no god,” he said, thinking, But I will never be human again.

  “Then take off the mask,” the boy challenged.

  “That I cannot do.”

  “Then you must be gods or spirits, all of you. I was trying to summon the deer god. I didn’t really think I could, but I was so desperate I didn’t know what else to do. And you came.”

  “Is that why you were beating the drum?” Eisei said.

  The boy replied, “People have said they’ve seen a figure, part deer, part man, in the forest. I thought I would try to call him out. I borrowed the drum from the shrine, but it’s not as easy to make it speak as I thought it would be.”

  “You were certainly persistent,” Nagatomo remarked. “In what way do you need help?”

  “My father died two years ago in Miyako, and now his cousins want to divide his estate among them. They say he was ordered to take his own life because he was a traitor and therefore his lands must be forfeited and I should not inherit them. When my mother opposes them, they say she and I deserve death, too, and we will be killed if we do not submit. But my mother thinks we will be killed even if we do. There is no one to help us. We cannot appeal to Lord Aritomo—my mother suspects he might even be supporting these false claims.”

  “What was your father’s name?” Shika said, though he had already guessed the answer.

  “Yukikuni no Takaakira, Lord of the Snow Country. My name is Takauji. I am his only son.” He had recovered some of his composure and now studied them, with their ragged clothes and their wild hair and beards, almost insolently. “You are so few. And you look like bandits. Is this how the deer god answers my prayers?”

  Shika liked his defiant attitude and found himself inclined to help Takaakira’s son. He put his hand on Jato and felt the sword quiver in response, as if it sensed his desire to fight and shared it.

  “There is one more of us,” he said. “We are not bandits, but you are right, we are few. How many cousins are there, and what forces do they command?”

  “There are three of them. Each has about twenty men. There are a few hundred warriors still attached to the estate and they are mostly undecided. They don’t think the land should be split up and they are loyal to my father’s memory. But I am not yet a man and they are not used to the idea of serving a woman. However, around here everyone worships the deer god and would do whatever he says.”

  Shika drew the Burnt Twins aside. “What should we do?” he asked quietly.

  “People obviously know we are here,” Nagatomo said. “Sooner or later they will learn who you are. Either we move on now, farther north, or we take advantage of this new situation.”

  “It’s an opportunity to stamp your mark here,” Eisei added. “If you have allies and men in the Snow Country, you will return to Miyako with the east protected.”

  They both spoke of the future, Shika thought, whereas he still did not consider he had a future. One action would lead to another if he started to reengage with the world.

  Tan, who had been following them through the forest at his own speed, trotted up to them, sniffing curiously at Takauji.

  “What a fine horse,” the boy exclaimed.

  “What should I do, Lord Kiyoyori?” Shika said.

  Tan pawed the ground and neighed shrilly. Naturally, Lord Kiyoyori wanted to fight.

  “We should talk to your mother,” Shika said to Takauji. “Where can we meet?”

  Takauji pointed to a small shrine hut at the farther side of the lake, half-obscured by willow trees and hazel bushes. It had the high, steep roof of Snow Country buildings. Above its door, antlers had been fastened, some of the largest Shika had ever seen, and newly tanned deer hides were spread over the small veranda. A frayed and knotted rope hung beneath a wooden bell. “I will bring her there at this time tomorrow.”

  “We will be there,” Shika promised.

  “Can I touch your antlers?” Takauji asked.

  Shika lowered his head. Takauji grasped the unbroken branch and pulled sharply, jerking Shika forward, unbalancing him.

  Shika cuffed him. “I told you, the mask does not come off.”

  “You really are the deer god, aren’t you?” Takauji said, with awe.

  * * *

  When they returned to the forest hut and told Ibara what they had learned, she said, “I would like to do something to help Lord Takaakira’s son, and his wife—she has suffered a lot in her life, I think.”

  “She must have seen very little of him,” Eisei remarked.

  “Yet he trusted her to run that vast estate in his absence,” Ibara said. “She is by no means a helpless woman; it may be some kind of trap. Let me go first tomorrow. I should be sorry to die before Masachika, but apart from that my life is unimportant.”

  Shika smiled, though he knew no one could see it beneath the mask. “We could argue all night over whose life matters the least.”

  “I don’t believe either of us has yet fulfilled our destiny,” she replied in a low voice.

  “Then you and I will go to the shrine and meet her together and give Heaven a chance to prove you are right. Nagatomo and Eisei will keep watch outside.”

  They rose early and were on the edge of the forest, with a clear view of the shrine, just after daybreak. They had hidden the horses farther back among the trees, but Tan had followed them, picking his way carefully among the winter’s dead leaves, through which blades of grass and flower stems were emerging. Under rocks the last of the snow still lingered. Gen walked stiff-legged behind Shika, turning his head to favor his right ear, now and then stopping to sniff the air.

  Shika settled into a meditation position, Jato on the ground beside him, his bow on his back, while Eisei and Nagatomo checked that the shrine was empty. They then melted back into the forest.

  Gen crouched on his haunches, a little in front. After some time, when the sun had burned the mist from the fields, the fake wolf raised his head and gave a faint whine. A few moments later, Shika heard the muffled tread of hoofs in the soft earth; only one horse, he thought.

  A crow called: Nagatomo had heard the horse, too. A real crow replied from a tree nearby, making Shika grin.

  The three figures came into sight, the woman riding, the boy running alongside. It was the same pony from the day before. It caught Tan’s scent and stared toward the forest, whinnying a greeting. The other horses would have neighed back, had they been within earshot, but Tan remained silent.

  The woman did not really ride the pony but rather used it as a
method of transport. She had no other interest in it. He guessed she did not ride often. It stopped abruptly not far from the shrine and she slid from its back, as though thankful to get off.

  The pony looked thankful, too, shook itself vigorously, and began to crop the new grass. The boy ran to the shrine, his knife drawn, and entered cautiously. After a few moments, he came out and beckoned to his mother.

  She looked around once, took some offerings from a cloth, and went forward to place them on the steps. The boy pulled the bell rope and the wooden clapper gave out a hollow, eerie sound that made Shika’s neck prickle. Gen gave a muffled howl.

  Shika picked up his weapons and approached the shrine. Ibara emerged from the dead bracken where she had been concealed, and followed him. At the steps she touched his arm and indicated that she should go first, but at that moment Takauji appeared on the threshold and gestured to them to come in. Bending his head, Shika stepped inside.

  For a moment he could see nothing in the gloom. He heard her gasp and could only imagine how the antlered mask had startled her. He made no bow or greeting, but she dropped to her knees, laid her palms flat on the floor, and lowered her head.

  “My son told me,” she whispered.

  “I am not the deer god,” he answered. “I am a man under enchantment, a curse, you could say.”

  “It must make you powerful,” she said, more loudly, sitting up and gazing at him frankly. “Yes, I can see it does. Believe me, I know all about power.”

  He could see, now, the planes of her face, sharp features, pale, northern skin. There was something birdlike about her; she reminded him of a falcon, fierce and swift. Her hands and feet were very small, her wrists slender.