Lord of the Darkwood

by Lian Hearn

  “Are you better with the bow or the sword?” she said, wasting no time.

  “I believe I can outfight most men with both,” he said, “but probably the bow suits me more.”

  She said, “I am glad of that. This is my plan. I don’t want to plunge the whole of the Snow Country into war, brothers against brothers, fathers against sons, but until those who challenge me are dead, that war cannot be avoided. I am going to invite my husband’s cousins to an archery contest, in honor of the deer god, and you will kill them.”

  She gave a thin-lipped smile. “Of course, there is no reason why you should help me. I don’t know who you are or where you have come from.”

  “There are bonds between us,” Shika replied. “My companion was employed by your late husband.”

  “Were you there when he died?” the lady said, turning her piercing eyes toward Ibara.

  “No, lady.”

  “Are you a woman?” her voice was bitter. “Is that why you found employment with him?”

  “No,” Ibara said simply, and then, “I worked in his household.”

  “Looking after Kiyoyori’s daughter, I suppose. I heard all about it. What a foolish thing to die for, don’t you think? I will never forgive him, but I will never forgive Aritomo either.” She was twisting her hands together, and then struck one fist with the other palm, and held her hands firmly so they would not move. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It has become a habit, since I had the news of his death. What happened to the girl? I hope she is dead, too. It was an evil day when Takaakira came upon her.”

  “She drowned while trying to escape,” Ibara said, levelly.

  “So much the better. But you are a strange one! Dressed as a man, carrying a sword. What are you trying to achieve?”

  Ibara gave Shika a look, and stepped to the open door, where she crouched down, staring at the lake.

  “I have offended her … him … which should I say? I did not mean to talk about these things. Now I am upset.”

  Shika could see that her life had made her selfish and angry. He was inclined to leave her to it: let the relatives divide the estate as they desired. But Takauji interested him and he wanted to spare the boy the sort of childhood he himself had had.

  She studied him as though divining his thoughts and said, “I suppose Aritomo would be very interested in knowing about you.”

  “He already knows about me,” Shika said. “He has nightmares about me.”

  “Does he know that you are here, in the Snow Country?”

  “By the time he learns that, I will be somewhere else.” Her gall in trying to threaten him, in this oblique way, made him laugh.

  She had the grace to look uncomfortable. “Well, as I said, I am no friend of the Minatogura lord. He will not hear about you from me. My men deeply resent their lord’s death. They are Snow Country people. They know how to keep silent.”

  She got to her feet and came close to him. For a moment he thought she was going to touch the mask, and he wondered briefly if it would come off under her fingers, but though she looked at it intently, she did not reach out. She lowered her eyes to his legs, as though appraising him, making him aware that her husband had been dead for many months, and even before that she had been more or less abandoned. He felt her hawklike determination. He admired her, but he did not in any way desire her.

  * * *

  At night, it was still cold, and sometimes there were new falls of snow, but once the equinox had passed, spring came with a rush. In the days before the competition, targets made of bundles of straw, shaped like wild boar, with large painted eyes and real tusks, were set up along the lakeshore. Horses were washed and groomed, their winter coats brushed out, their manes and tails plaited with red. They caught the excitement and neighed wildly, stamping their feet and tossing their heads. From the marshes, nesting birds shrieked in response.

  Takauji and his mother were given the place of honor on the steps of the shrine. All day men competed in heats, galloping past the targets and losing their arrows. The boar’s eyes were considered the winning shot. Finally there were four rivals left, the three cousins and one of Lady Yukikuni’s men, middle-aged, skillful and cunning, with a clever, nimble horse. None of them had achieved the perfect score of three eyes in a row.

  As they were preparing to ride off against one another, the lady said in a clear voice, “There is one more competitor, the representative of the deer god himself. Who dares take him on?”

  She beckoned to Shika and called, “Come out!”

  Nyorin stepped out of the forest, his silver coat gleaming, his long mane decorated with flowers and leaves. A cry of surprise and awe came from the watching crowd. The other competitors fell back as the horse approached the shrine. Shika bowed his antlered head to the lady and her son and took the huge bow from his shoulder. Nyorin’s nostrils flared and he uttered a challenging neigh as Shika turned him toward the starting point, breaking into a swift gallop as Shika dropped the reins on his neck and drew from his quiver one of the arrows he had made in the forest.

  It was easy for him, far easier than shooting the werehawk from the sky. One after another, three arrows slammed into the boars’ eyes.

  Nyorin came to a halt and trotted back to the starting line, where he stood snorting in triumph as though saying, Beat that!

  Shika was about to dismount and go to the lady when one of the cousins rode toward him, shouting, “Take off that mask and let us see who you really are!”

  Several tried to dissuade him, but he had already drawn his sword and was thrusting toward Shika. Nyorin moved like lightning, striking out with his forefeet, giving Shika time to draw Jato.

  The lady said in a clear voice, “He has drawn his sword against the deer god. Let him die.”

  No one saw who loosed the shaft that pierced the man’s chest. It came out of the forest. Shika knew it was Nagatomo’s. Within moments the other two cousins were dead. Eisei and Ibara, he thought. The straw boars stared with their blind eyes as the blood soaked into mud and sand.

  The lady was on her feet, her pale face flushed with triumph. “It is the judgment of the forest itself!” she cried.

  People drew back as Shikanoko rode away, afraid his shadow would fall on them.

  * * *

  The next day there were offerings on the edge of the forest, and every day after that. A week went by before the lady came, riding the dun pony, with Takauji leading it. She had brought Shika a pair of chaps made from wolf skins. The fur was gray and white, the bushy tails still attached.

  After she had given them to him she said, “Stay with me as my husband. I know you are a man.”

  “If you can remove the mask, I will,” he replied, not believing she could.

  She smiled and reached out immediately, certain she would succeed, but she could not shift it from his face. Tears of disappointment came to her eyes.

  “Stay anyway,” she begged. “I will tell no one. You may hide out in the forest all summer and I will come to you at night. You have seen how the farmers are already bringing you food. You will lack nothing. I will show you my gratitude.”

  Shika thanked her, but, as soon as she had left, without even any discussion among them, they prepared the horses, packed up their few possessions, and began to ride to the north.

  5

  KIKU

  Once they had struck the northern coast highway and turned to the west, the three boys, Chika, Kiku, and Kuro, came across many other travelers: merchants with trains of packhorses; monks carrying stout sticks and begging bowls; officials and their retinues; warriors on horseback, in groups of three or four, offering their swords and their services as bodyguards; beggars, and probably not a few thieves, Chika thought, taking care to keep the treasure well hidden. They had divided it into three and put it into separate bags, though Kiku and Kuro had each taken a strand of pearl prayer beads to string around his neck. Kiku’s entangled with the beak and talons of the werehawk.

  Chika explained who
all these people were, as best he could, adding to the knowledge Kiku and Kuro had acquired in their previous forays into the human world, but their grasp of how everything hung together was still flimsy.

  “Is this the mountain where Akuzenji was king?” Kuro asked as they climbed up to the pass. The road was steep, hardly more than a track. Horses stumbled over rocks and slipped on the scree. Even high in the mountains, it was hot. Sweat dripped from men’s faces, and the animals’ bellies and legs were flecked with white stains.

  “I suppose so, and this must have been the most dangerous part of the journey,” Chika said. “Any number of men could lie hidden behind the outcrops, and there is nowhere to escape to.”

  The mountain rose steep and jagged on one side, and, on the other, the valley fell away, a sheer drop of hundreds of feet.

  “That’s where Akuzenji used to throw the bodies of those who refused to pay him,” said a man who had been walking just behind them, leading a small horse laden with baskets. “Only they were not strictly speaking bodies, not until they reached the bottom, that is.”

  Kuro’s eyes brightened with interest.

  “Where are you boys walking to?” the stranger went on.

  “Kitakami,” Chika said.

  “All alone? No family?”

  Chika said warily, “In Kitakami—we are going to a relative’s house.”

  “What is their name? I know most people in Kitakami.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “So where do they live?”

  “Near the port,” Chika improvised.

  The man laughed. “In Kitakami everyone lives near the port. Well, if you find them, tell them Sansaburo from Asano says good day. May your journey be safe!”

  He clicked his tongue at the horse and walked past them.

  “What did he mean by all that?” Kiku said.

  “I think he was just being friendly,” Chika replied.

  Kiku looked at Kuro, who raised his eyebrows as if he, also, did not understand.

  At the top of the pass, they paused to catch their breath. The black cone of Kuroyama rose behind them, and in front lay fold after fold of ranges all the way to the west. In the distance, to the north, Chika could see the glimmer of the sea, and in the south a huge lake—Kasumi, he supposed. It was approaching evening; most travelers had hastened on to find lodging before dark. Only the friendly merchant was still on the road ahead of them.

  Kiku, deep in thought, hardly looked at the view but, as they began the descent, said to Kuro, “Let’s take that horse.”

  “All right,” Kuro replied agreeably. “Shall I use the sparrow bee?”

  “That’ll do,” said Kiku.

  They quickened their pace until they had almost caught up with the man. Kuro took the cover from the wicker cage and the sparrow bee began to buzz angrily. He released the catch and the bee shot out, soaring briefly, then descending to attack. The man called Sansaburo from Asano gave a cry and danced around, waving his arms futilely. The bee stung him on both hands, then on the neck. Within moments he was lying in the dust, clutching at his throat.

  “What have you done?” Chika cried in shock.

  Kuro had grabbed the lead rope of the startled horse and was trying to catch the bee before it stung the horse, too. When he had succeeded he said, “Let’s throw him over the edge.”

  “No, we’ll leave him here,” Kiku said.

  “You killed him!” Chika said. “He’d done nothing to you!”

  “Don’t worry. I have a plan. We’ll take the horse.”

  “What’s in the baskets?” Kuro said, curious.

  They loosened the well-tied knots on one of the baskets and prized open the lid. A faint fishy smell floated out.

  “Just old shells?” Kiku said. “What use are they?”

  Chika slipped his hand in among the shells and felt their smooth interiors. “It must be mother-of-pearl. It’s used as decoration, in inlays and so on.”

  “Is it valuable?” Kiku asked.

  “Very,” Chika replied.

  “We’ll take it to the … who should we hand it over to?”

  “What do you mean?” Chika asked.

  “Aren’t we going to keep it?” Kuro said.

  “We must give it back,” Kiku declared. “We’ll say we found the horse, straying. But first we need to kill a couple more merchants, so people begin to be frightened.”

  Chika said doubtfully, “We’ll be caught.”

  “I promise you, we will never be caught,” Kiku said, with conviction. “Just tell me who we should take the shells to.”

  “I suppose to whoever ordered them. This man probably took them to the same person, year after year.”

  “Hmm. I should have asked him that, before he died,” Kiku said. “There’s so much to learn. Well, you can make inquiries when we get to Kitakami.”

  They walked a little farther and, when night fell, went off the track into the forest to rest for a while. Kuro sat by the horse, keeping watch, and Chika and Kiku lay down, side by side. Kiku seemed to fall asleep immediately, but Chika was wakeful, and when he did finally sleep he had a nightmare that one of Kuro’s snakes was slithering toward him. He tried to run, but his limbs were paralyzed. The snake hissed and flickered its tongue and he knew that at any moment it would bite him and he would die. He woke to find Kiku’s arms around him.

  “You were screaming. What’s wrong?”

  “I had a bad dream.”

  Kiku said, sounding surprised, “It feels nice, holding you like this.”

  Chika lay without moving, letting the other boy touch him with exploring hands. He felt his body begin to respond to the pleasure. Their limbs entwined, their mouths joined, as they took the first steps on the journey of sex and death that would bind them to each other.

  The second merchant was garroted by an invisible Kiku. They took his horse, loaded this time with bamboo scoops and bowls. Kuro looked after the horses while Chika and Kiku fell on each other with the ferocious lust of young males, incited by their seeming power over life and death.

  “Can you kill anyone you choose?” Chika asked, as he lay panting and exhausted.

  “I don’t know yet. I am finding out. It’s fun, isn’t it? The killing, and then this afterward? I had no idea it was all so much fun. I don’t understand why people don’t do it all the time.”

  “Some do,” Chika replied. “But it’s not so much fun for the people who die.”

  “If people did not die, there would be no room for new ones. And don’t they just get reborn into a new life, anyway?”

  They had heard monks and priests expounding the doctrine along the road.

  “Can you be killed?” Chika asked, a new fear seizing him.

  “I suppose so. Our fathers are mostly dead, and our mother.” Kiku did not want to dwell on the subject. “So who shall we kill next? You choose.”

  The idea seemed suddenly irresistible, yet a few months ago it would have appalled him. His warrior upbringing was being corrupted and tainted by Kiku. He tried not to think of his father’s stern teachings. He knew he was enthralled by Kiku, as by no one else in the world. He wanted to please him; he could not resist him.

  “I bet you cannot kill a warrior,” he challenged.

  * * *

  He was not much of a warrior, a solitary, grizzled man with only one eye, the empty socket yawning disconcertingly. He sang ballads in a monotonous, melancholy voice outside a lodging place not far from Kitakami. Chika and Kiku watched him while the horses rested and drank and Kuro procured food. Chika found the strains of his voice, in the summer evening, curiously moving. He wondered where he had come from, what had reduced him to this.

  He wore a faded green hunting robe and under it a corselet, missing much of its silk lacing; at his hip was a long sword. He did not earn enough for a meal, let alone a room, and began to walk away, his measured gait and the set of his shoulders indicating he was resigned to another night on the road.

  The two
boys sauntered after him, and Kuro pulled the reluctant horses along behind them. Kiku waved at his brother to fall back out of sight.

  “Attract your warrior’s attention,” he whispered to Chika. “I’ll grab him from behind and then you can use your sword.”

  Chika watched, with all the shock and thrill it always gave him, as Kiku faded into nothingness, and then, hastening his steps, called, “Hey, sir, wait a minute!”

  The man turned. The sunset behind him made him appear solid, black and featureless, and for a moment Chika felt afraid, but as he came closer he saw the lines in the face and the gray hair. The remaining eye was clouded, two fingers were missing from the left hand. When the man finally moved, it was stiffly—no doubt he was troubled by old wounds.

  “What do you want, boy?”

  “I am traveling alone. I thought we could walk together.”

  The warrior gave him a shrewd look. “What happened to your companions and the horses?”

  Chika said, “They have gone their own way. Maybe they stopped for the night.”

  “You carry a sword; you look like a warrior’s son. Were you not taught to speak the truth, at all times?” His tone was forbearing, but the words flicked Chika like a whip.

  “You are an expert on the life of a warrior, are you, you beggar?”

  The man turned. “Walk by yourself. I am a little fussy in my choice of companions. If you ever learn any manners, you can approach me again.”

  Chika’s hand was on his sword. At the same moment the warrior drew his own, turned as fast as a snake, and struck out.

  Kiku gave a shriek, breaking into sight, grasping his arm, blood beginning to drip from it.

  “What are you?” the warrior cried. “Forgive me, you should not sneak up on a man like that. It’s instinctive, you see. I can’t help but react. Now I have cut you!” His eyes went back to Chika’s sword. “What? You were intending to kill me? Two shabby boys like you? You must be desperate! I have nothing but these clothes and my sword. I’ll die before I hand that over!”

  “I’m bleeding,” Kiku said.

  “It’s not fatal,” the man assured him. “Unless you are unlucky enough to get wound fever. Wash it well, that’s my advice. And now, my young friends, unless the warrior’s son wants to fight me, I’ll be on my way.”