by Lian Hearn
“What about those men?” Aki said as they rode off. “Do we just leave them there?”
“Let them rot,” Shika replied, and then, “Who were they? Did you know them?”
“One had been following us since we left Miyako. I thought we had shaken him off, but as we left Aomizu I realized he had caught up with us.”
“That’s a long way to keep following someone. Did he know who you were? Why was he so persistent?”
“I think something about us had roused his lust,” she said.
“What was he going to do to us?” Yoshi said.
“Don’t worry about him. He is dead now and can no longer do anything, good or bad, to anyone.” Aki tried to speak reassuringly, but thinking about what might have happened made her tremble. The days with the entertainers on the boat had awakened something in her. She remembered the suitors who had started hanging around the house in the city. Most girls her age would be married by now. She recoiled from the idea—she had made her vows of purity—yet she was drawn to it at the same time. Instead, neither a wife nor a shrine maiden, she was riding through the twilight, following a man on a white stallion who had just saved her life, the Emperor of the Eight Islands held tightly in her arms.
After a couple of miles they came to a crossroads. Rinrakuji lay some way to the east, while the track between Kitakami and Shimaura ran from north to south, following a small, shallow stream, crossing and recrossing it as it wound between the mountains. The road was not much used. It was impassable in the rainy season, and people preferred to travel by boat over the lake. Now the crossroads was deserted. The mountains loomed to the east, their huge dark shapes outlined by the moonlight behind them. The wind had risen and was making the pine trees sigh and moan. The air was warm and humid and insects were calling.
The horses walked with nervous steps, and just before the meeting of the four roads they balked completely. Nothing would make them move on.
Kon flew in an upward spiral above the crossroads and then came back to Shika’s shoulder, chattering quietly but urgently.
“There is a spirit there,” Shika said. “The horses will not go past it.”
“You are just making it up to persuade us to turn back.” Aki’s earlier mistrust returned.
“Not back. We must go south a little way and then we will go into the Darkwood. I know a place where no one will find you.”
A voice came out of the dusk.
“Shikanoko! Is that you?”
Aki saw his face pale. “Lord Kiyoyori?” he whispered.
“Yes, it is I.”
Aki could see nothing. Risu was trembling beneath her. Shika dismounted and gave the stallion’s reins to her. “I’m going to talk to him.”
“Who is it?”
“It is, or was, the Kuromori lord.”
23
SHIKANOKO
Shika took the mask from the brocade bag and slipped it over his face. He stepped into the exact center where the four roads met and found himself in a place between worlds.
He had learned about such things from the Prince Abbot: crossroads, riverbanks, seashores, bridges, islands were all points where the worlds came together and touched, where miracles took place, where saints and restless ghosts dwelled, where adepts might be shown their next lives, or Paradise, or the different levels of Hell.
The Book of the Future, in which, the Prince Abbot claimed, neither Yoshimori’s name nor that of his father were written, had been disclosed centuries before to Prince Umayado in one such place, between the worlds.
He stood on the banks of the river of death. He saw its black, still water, and heard the splash of the ferryman’s oars. The moon cleared the last mountain peak and in its light he saw Kiyoyori. Pity and revulsion churned in his belly. The lord’s skin was burned, his eyes sightless. As Shika went closer he saw that his chest did not move to draw in breath and there was no pulse of blood in his temple.
It was impossible that he was alive, yet he stood and spoke.
“Is that the young prince with you, the true emperor?”
“Yes, it is Yoshimori, and a girl called Akihime.”
The spirit reached out a charred hand, holding a blackened, twisted sword. “I will not let you take them back to Ryusonji.”
“I don’t intend to. She wants to go to Rinrakuji. If that is no longer safe I will hide them in the Darkwood.”
“Then I must come with you, for am I not the lord of the Darkwood, of Kuromori?”
“Can you leave this place?” Shika said, doubting it was possible.
“I am not sure. I have not been here long. I had crossed two of the three streams of the river of death, and was prepared to meet the lord of Hell, when I was told a man who wronged me had taken my token of death, given it to the ferryman, and gone on in my place. You must have known about Iida no Taro, at whose hands my son died? It was he. One arrow took us both from this world at the same instant. His guilt and regret caused him to make this offer and the lord of Hell accepted it. I was told my work on earth is not finished. While the usurpers are in power the realm cannot receive the blessings of Heaven. I have to return to the world to restore the Emperor.”
“How is it done?” Shika said.
“You must summon me back, Shikanoko. I resented you when I saw you in the service of the Prince Abbot, but now I understand that you were learning from him, you were stealing from him his knowledge and power, just as you stole Akuzenji’s stallion, and the werehawk that has never belonged to anyone but the Prince Abbot but now does your bidding. Heaven uses us for its purposes. Bring me back so its intentions may be fulfilled. Or must I stay here forever, neither living nor dead, a ghost of the crossroads?”
Shikanoko did not answer. He recalled spells and words of power that the Prince Abbot used in rites of secrecy and magic, the spirit-return incense, the fire, the salt. He had nothing, except the mask and something he now became more acutely aware of: Sesshin’s nugget. He could feel it glowing and expanding within him until the pain became so intense it took him beyond words, beyond even thought. He thought he sensed the Prince Abbot’s surprise and anger as this new power combined with all he had learned at Ryusonji and surpassed it. He saw Kiyoyori’s spirit clinging to the burned husk, and then another’s, a horse spirit poised at that moment to enter its mother’s womb.
“I am ready,” Kiyoyori said, and Shikanoko commanded the two spirits to become one.
He felt a surge of power as they obeyed him. He saw Kiyoyori’s spirit leave its ruined body and float above the ground. The body dissolved away into dust. The earth shook beneath them. Shika fell as if struck by lightning. Risu neighed wildly and Nyorin answered, their calls echoing back from the flanks of the mountains.
In the distance other horses neighed in response. The werehawk flew directly upward, its ragged wings outlined against the moon.
Shika heard it calling desperately, “Rinrakuji is in flames and the Miboshi are riding this way.”
Through the silence that enveloped him, numbing his senses, Shika heard the girl’s voice, urging him to get up. It sounded a long way away. He stood, groggy and sick, as if he had been hit on the head, and felt for Nyorin.
“What happened?” she was saying. “Are you hurt? Can you see?”
His hands found the stallion’s shoulder and he leaned against him for a moment. Risu was circling anxiously, Aki trying to control her and hold Yoshi at the same time.
What will your foal become, Risu? He did not answer Aki, as he had no words for what had just taken place.
The moon was now fully overhead and something glittered in the dust. He stepped toward it and picked it up.
“What’s that?” the girl said sharply.
“It’s Lord Kiyoyori’s sword.”
Blackened and twisted beyond recognition, it was all that remained of the Kuromori lord.
He slipped it into his belt on his right side, took the mask from his face, and said the prayers of thanks to it before placing it in the seve
n-layered bag. He went back to the horses and pulled himself up onto Nyorin’s back.
No one knew they were on the road. Kon was still with him, flying down now to his shoulder and croaking in admiration. Whoever had taken Rinrakuji would probably go on to Aomizu. He had to take Aki and Yoshi deep into the forest.
He put the stallion into a canter. Turning his head, he saw Aki and Risu were able to keep up. The girl was holding Yoshi tightly and the child was clutching whatever was in the bundle. He was amazed at how well she rode.
The track toward the south ran straight for a while, the river alongside splashing swift and white under the moon. Now and then water birds flew up, startled at their approach, but they saw no one human. After some time, when the moon was starting its descent, they came to the place Shika was looking for. A small stream joined the river through a deep valley from the east, which led to a pass through the mountains. It was the western extent of Akuzenji’s realm; Shika had ridden through it once or twice with the bandits. The horses knew it, too, and crossed the stream eagerly as if they were going home.
Aki said, on the farther bank, “Yoshi keeps falling asleep. It’s hard for me to hold him. Can we stop and rest?”
“There’s a hut, it’s not far. We’ll let him sleep there.”
It was a place Akuzenji had taken over for his scouts, where they could watch for merchants and other travelers on the south road. It was built against the side of the hill, beside a large natural cave where several horses could be hidden out of sight. Shika halted the horses a short way from it and went forward on foot, Kon flying above him, sending an owl swooping away on silent wings.
If owls roost there it must be deserted, Shika reasoned, and indeed the hut was empty, full of dust and cobwebs. Fear of the King of the Mountain, even if he was dead, must have kept it undisturbed. He returned to the horses and led them to the cave. Water, dripping from the roof, had filled a small hollow in the soft limestone. The horses knew it even in the dark, and drank eagerly from it.
Shika lifted Yoshi down and, holding the drowsy boy against his shoulder, reached out his other hand to Aki. She took it and swung her leg over the horse’s back to jump down.
He held her for a moment longer than he needed to, and felt again the spark of desire and longing that had been awakened when she had fallen against him earlier. Could she be the one who was meant for him, the one Lady Tora had told him he was to wed? She had been brought to him by Fate; she had been present when he had defied the power of the Prince Abbot and performed an unimaginable act of spirit magic. A sense of what he might be capable had been welling up steadily within him.
It was still light enough, by the moon, to see a little. Kon flew up to the roof and sat on the ridgepole, a dark outline against the darker sky.
“Does the werehawk ever sleep?” Aki asked, stepping away from him.
“They act like ordinary birds: they eat and sleep, and as you saw, they can die. Yet they are different. They are like humans in that they plot and scheme, seek favors, and ally themselves with the powerful. Perhaps because they have language.”
“Which you can understand?”
“I can understand Kon. For some reason he has attached himself to me.”
“Why do you call him Kon?”
“He has one golden feather,” Shika explained.
“I think he has more than one,” Aki replied.
Shika glanced upward, but it was too dark to see. He stepped into the hut. There was no fire or light, but it did not seem worth the effort to make them. The night was warm and, though the moon had just set, dawn was not far away. He remembered a pile of old coverings and, feeling his way to the corner of the room, found it, pulled out two of the cloths, and put Yoshi down on the rest. The boy stretched and murmured something and then dropped into a deeper sleep. His grasp on the bundle loosened and it slipped to the floor, vibrating with a faint musical chord. Aki knelt to retrieve it.
“What is it that he carries so carefully?” Shika whispered.
“It is the lute Genzo,” Aki replied. “It is an imperial heirloom. It is magical. It can play by itself, if it wants to, and can change its appearance. Here, see how it looks, if it reveals itself to you.”
“It is too dark to see anything,” Shika replied, but Aki had already removed the lute from the bundle.
The mother-of-pearl gleamed like moonlight. Aki touched the strings and the lute began to play quietly, an old song Shika recognized, a love song.
He knelt beside her. “You can lie down and sleep, too. I will wake you when it is daylight.”
She lay down and pulled the old quilt over her. “It smells,” she said. “I suppose it is full of fleas, too.”
He heard the note of unease, almost of fear, in her voice. “You mustn’t be afraid of me,” he said.
“It’s not that I’m afraid of you,” she replied, so softly he could hardly make out her words. “Not in the ordinary way. Maybe I am afraid of myself, of my own feelings.”
She said nothing more and he thought she had fallen asleep. He stretched out, the bow and arrow behind his head, his sword beside his right hand. He let his limbs relax, though he did not intend to sleep.
After a little while Aki’s voice surprised him. “I am dedicated to be a shrine maiden. I promised my father that I would not let any man be intimate with me, that I would kill him. I still have my knife. I am just warning you.”
“Go to sleep,” he said, but he wished she had not brought up the subject. Now he was even more aware of the female body next to his. Memories of the day’s events seemed to race through his muscles and his veins. First he had killed two men, dropping them like hares. Then Kon had attacked Zen and torn the other werehawk to pieces, and Shika had understood his speech and had wrested him from the Prince Abbot’s control. He had walked between the worlds at the crossroads, had spoken to the spirit of the Kuromori lord, and had summoned it from the entrance of Hell into the foal’s developing body.
Truly I am a sorcerer of power! Of what else am I capable?
Pride began to well up in him, sweet and seductive, telling him he deserved all things, that he was allowed all things, that he could take what he wanted, in this world and the next. This was the one meant for him, the one the sorceress had told him he would wed. She was here, alongside him. He had killed for her, he had rescued her.
The night was warm, filled with the sounds of spring, frogs croaking from the stream, insects calling. The lute continued to play quietly, its plangent notes adding to his desire.
He turned restlessly and then sat up, deciding to meditate for a while to try to still his rebellious body. He fumbled in the dark for the seven-layered bag, took out the mask, and slipped it over his face.
Immediately he felt himself transported from the hut, bounding on stag’s hoofs toward Ryusonji. He struggled to take control, reached inside himself for Sesshin’s power. He stood on the veranda of the temple and saw the Prince Abbot, sitting in meditation by the open door.
The priest said without opening his eyes, “So, my little stag has returned? Did you think you would escape me so easily?”
Shika tried to regain his will, to turn and run, but his limbs were frozen as if he were dreaming.
“Where is Prince Yoshimori? If you have found him why have you not brought me his head? What have you been doing and how did you evade me before, at the crossroads?”
The Prince Abbot opened his eyes and stood, and Shika felt the full force of his rage.
“I will punish you,” the priest said. “You dare to try to oppose me? You have no idea how strong I am. Now go and do what you want with the Autumn Princess. I see your lust for her. Take her now, why wait for marriage? Then kill Yoshimori and bring me his head.”
The Prince Abbot raised his hand and spoke words Shika had never heard before. He found himself back in the hut. The power of the forest was all around him and the pure animal instinct of the stag swept over him. The girl turned in her sleep toward him. Her robe
was open. Then she was in his arms and his mouth was on hers. She tried to push him away, he remembered briefly the knife, but then nothing would stop him, neither pity nor fear. He possessed her as the stag does the hind, with mindless domination. But even as he cried out at the moment of ecstasy, he realized what the Prince Abbot had done, and he had the first inkling of how complete his punishment would be.
He wrenched off the mask and threw it from him. She lay without moving or speaking. He wanted to hold her and caress her with tenderness, but shame prevented him. He pulled his clothes around him and went to the door of the hut. Beyond him lay the Darkwood and all the sounds and shadows of the nighttime forest. Far away, wolves were howling. He recalled his earlier pride and exultation with despair and disgust. He went a little way down the side of the hut and leaned against the rough-sawn planks of the wall. He had no idea what to do now. He just knew he had failed.
From the hut he thought he heard sounds of weeping, but the lute was still playing softly, so he could not be sure. His own eyes grew hot, but he would not grant himself the relief of tears. He walked away into the darkness, stumbling over fallen branches, until he came up against the trunk of a huge cedar. He clasped it in his arms and leaned his forehead against it, then slid to its base, feeling the moss cool against his skin.
When he came to his senses it was dawn. He made himself get up and return to the hut. He was not sure what he would do: throw himself down before her, ask for forgiveness, seek her help. But she was not there. Had his actions forced her to run away, to abandon Yoshimori? He turned and called her name, “Akihime! Akihime!”
Birds were singing and Kon answered them from the rooftop. Rain was falling softly, a drizzling mist that hid the mountains. He knew he had lost her, a loss that felt immeasurable, as if it encompassed the whole world. Every tree dripped with moisture as though they wept with him. He had not rescued her. How arrogant to think that! She had been entrusted to him and he had broken that trust. He called again, “Akihime!”
The horses whinnied in response to his voice, and at the same moment he heard something stir in the hut. Was she there, had he somehow overlooked her? He went inside.