Heaven's Net Is Wide

by Lian Hearn

  “Lord Otori,” he said, not waiting for the others to speak or giving any formal greeting. “You have returned. You have come to call us to arms again. We have been waiting for you!”

  Shigeru stared at him. There was something familiar about the man’s face, but he could not place him. He was young, less than twenty, his face gaunt and bony, his eyes glittering in deep sockets.

  He is a madman, Shigeru thought, unhinged by some great loss.

  He tried to speak gently but firmly. “I have not come to call you or anyone to arms. The war is over. We live at peace now.”

  Masaji drew his sword. “This man deserves to die!”

  “He is just a lunatic,” Shigeru said. “Find out where he comes from and return him to his family.”

  Masaji hesitated for a moment, long enough for the stranger, with the single-minded swiftness of the insane, to mount his horse again, and rein it backward toward the forest. He cried out in a hoarse voice, “So it is true what they all say. Otori failed us at Yaegahara and fails us now.”

  He turned the horse and galloped back, weaving between the trees and quickly disappearing.

  “I’ll go after him and capture him,” Masaji exclaimed, and he called to his men. “Did you know him, Lord Shigeru?”

  “I don’t think so,” Shigeru replied.

  “There are many masterless men between here and Inuyama,” Masaji said. “They turn to banditry. My father is trying to eradicate them. Good-bye, Shigeru. I am glad we had this chance to meet again. I’ve long wanted to tell you I don’t blame you for not taking your own life, as many do. I’m sure you had good reasons, and it does not mean any lack of courage.”

  There was no time to reply to this. Masaji and his men had already put their horses into a canter in pursuit of the madman. Shigeru urged Kyu into a gallop up the steep track to the pass, wanting to leave them both behind, the lunatic and the man who had once been a friend, and to forget their words, which revived all too strongly his sense of failure and dishonor. It was only that night, just before sleep, that he remembered where he had seen the man before. It had been at his wife’s parents’ house in Kushimoto. The man was from the Yanagi, who had been all but wiped out in the battle by the traitorous Noguchi, whose very name had been eradicated. It was distressing and disturbing, awakening all his feelings of guilt and grief about Moe, his doubts about the path he had chosen, his feeling that death by his own hand would have been the braver choice.

  Soga Juro Sukenari waited eighteen years to avenge his father. It was only three years since Yaegahara and his own father’s death. Was he deluding himself that he would have the patience to wait as long as another fifteen years, suffering constant humiliations like those of today?

  The turn of the moon had brought a change in the weather. It was much colder, and he could hear rain making its first tentative patter on the roof. He thought of the power of water. It allowed itself to be channeled by stone and soil, yet it wore away the first and washed away the second. He fell asleep to the sound of the rain, his last thought that he would be as patient as water.

  42

  A couple of weeks later, just before the onset of winter, Shigeru was returning home on a bitterly cold day when he became aware that someone was following him. He turned once and saw a figure hidden by a hat and cape: it was impossible to tell if it was male or female, though it was of no great height. He walked faster, his hand prepared to go to his sword. The road was frozen solid and icy underfoot. He looked almost unconsciously for a piece of firmer ground on which to make a stand if he had to, but when he turned again, his follower had vanished—though he had the feeling he was still there, unseen: he fancied he could hear the slightest footfall, the merest breath.

  “Is that you, Kenji?” he demanded, for sometimes the Fox played similar tricks on him, but there was no response. The wind blew more coldly; night was falling. As he turned to hurry home, he felt someone pass by him and caught the slight scent of a woman.

  “Muto Shizuka!” he said. “I know it is you. Show yourself to me.”

  There was no reply. He said more angrily, “Show yourself!”

  Two men came around the corner, pushing a barrow laden with chestnuts. They stared at Shigeru in amazement.

  “Lord Otori! What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he replied. “Nothing’s wrong. I am on my way home.”

  They will think I’ve gone mad. “Not only the farmer but the crazy farmer,” he muttered as he came to the gate of his mother’s house, certain that the two would go straight to the nearest inn and start gossiping about him.

  The dogs got up, wagging their tails at the sight of him. “Has anyone come in?” he called to the guards.

  “No one, lord,” one replied.

  Chiyo said the same when she came out to welcome him. He walked into every room: there was no one there. Yet he was sure he could still smell the faint unfamiliar scent. He bathed and ate distractedly, uncomfortably aware of his vulnerability to the Tribe. There might be poison in his food; a knife might suddenly come out of the air: a mouthful of needles might be spat out with supernatural force and speed, directed at the eye. He would die almost without knowing it.

  He had removed his sword when entering the house. Now he called to Chiyo to bring it to him; he laid it on the floor next to him and placed it in his sash when, after the meal, he went to the room where he usually spent the evening reading and writing. Ichiro had retired early, suffering from a heavy cold. Chiyo had already placed two braziers in the room, but the air was still chilly enough for him to see his own breath.

  And someone else’s. A tiny, hardly perceptible cloud hung at knee level.

  “Muto,” he said, and drew his sword.

  She came out of nowhere: one moment the room was empty; the air shimmered; the next moment she knelt on the floor in front of him. Though he had seen Kenji do this, it still made him dizzy, as though reality itself were dislodged. He took a deep breath.

  “Lord Otori.” She lowered her brow to the ground and remained there, her hair spilling over her face, revealing her slender neck.

  If he had met her in the street or in the forest, if she had been standing, walking—in any position but this—he would have fought with her and killed her to punish her for her duplicity and treachery. But he had never killed a woman or an unarmed man—though she was hardly an ordinary woman, she seemed to be unarmed; furthermore, the idea of shedding blood within his own house repelled him. And she had kindled his curiosity: now he had seen with his own eyes what his father had seen, the Tribe woman who could disappear and reappear at will. Why had she come to him like this, putting herself, it seemed, in his power? And what might he learn from her?

  He sat cross-legged, placing the sword next to him. “Sit up,” he said. “Why are you here?”

  “There are many things I want to talk to you about,” she replied as she raised herself, looking directly at him. “I came here because your house is safe: there are no spies here, no members of the Tribe. Your household are very loyal to you—as is most of Hagi.”

  “Did your uncle send you?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Part of my commission is from him. I will tell you his news first. There’s been an unfortunate development that he thought you should know about. There was an attempt to assassinate Iida Sadamu two weeks ago.”

  “What happened?” Shigeru said. “It failed, presumably. Who was behind it?”

  “You had nothing to do with it?”

  “Am I under suspicion?”

  “The would-be assassin was from your wife’s family, the Yanagi.”

  Shigeru remembered the madman who had ridden out of the forest: he knew at once it must be the same man.

  “He was apparently seeking to avenge the annihilation of the clan,” Shizuka continued. “My uncle and I believe he was acting individually, out of rage and despair. It was a clumsy attempt: he tried to ambush Iida on the road when he was returning to Inuyama for the winter. He never got near h
im. He was taken alive and tortured for five days, but he said little except that he was the last of the Yanagi. He was a warrior, but Iida declared him stripped of all privileges: he died finally on the castle wall. Iida immediately assumed he was in your service. It has reawakened all his suspicions. He will demand some sort of retribution from the Otori.”

  “I am in no way involved,” Shigeru exclaimed, appalled at the implications of this rash act of which he had had no knowledge. “How can I be held responsible?”

  “Many people would like to assassinate Iida; he will always see your hand behind it. And besides, something more implicates you. Kitano Masaji reported that the same man had spoken to you as you left Misumi. He said you must have given him some secret message or sign.”

  “I thought he was a lunatic and tried to prevent Kitano from killing him!”

  “A grave mistake. He eluded Kitano’s men and went straight to the high road between Kushimoto and Inuyama to attack Iida. My uncle’s advice is to lie very low. Don’t leave the Middle Country. Stay in Hagi if possible.”

  “I only travel for agricultural research and religious duties,” Shigeru said. “And both must be laid aside during the winter.” He gestured at the writing materials and the boxes of scrolls that filled the room. “I have plenty with which to occupy myself until spring comes.” He gave her his openhearted smile, but when he spoke again, his voice was bitter. “You may tell your uncle that—and Iida, of course.”

  She said, “You are still angry with me. I must also talk about this. I was acting on the orders of my family when I betrayed you and the man I love, the father of my sons. From the Tribe’s point of view, I was doing my duty. It is not the worst thing I have done at their command. Yet I am deeply ashamed of it, and I ask you to forgive me.”

  “How can I forgive you?” he replied, trying to control his anger. “The betrayal and death of my father, my best friend, thousands of my men; the loss of my position—and after you swore to Arai Daiichi and to me that we could trust you.”

  Her face was white, her eyes opaque. “Believe me, the dead haunt me. That is why I want to make amends.”

  “You must take me for a fool. Am I supposed to trust you again and express my forgiveness to ease your pangs of conscience? For what purpose? I have retired from politics; I have no interest in anything other than farming my estate and pursuing my spiritual duties. What is past is past. Your remorse cannot undo the battle or bring back the dead.”

  “I will not defend myself against your contempt and distrust, for I deserve both. I just ask you to see things from the point of view of a woman from the Tribe who now wants to help you.”

  “I know you are a consummate actor,” he said. “You outdo yourself in this performance.” He was on the point of ordering her to leave, of calling the guards and having her thrown out, having them put her to death.

  She held out her hands to him, palms upward. He saw the unusual lines that ran straight across the hand as though cutting it in half. He stared at them, trying to remember . . . something his father had said, about the Kikuta woman.

  “Lord Otori, how can I convince you to trust me?”

  He raised his eyes from her hands to her face. It was impossible to tell if she was sincere or not. He said nothing for a few moments, making an effort to curb his anger, trying to assess the dangers and the advantages to him in this sudden new development, thinking with brief sorrow of the young Yanagi man, his pain, his humiliation. He turned away from her and said abruptly, “What do the lines on your hands signify?”

  She glanced down at them. “Some of us who have Kikuta blood carry this mark. It is supposed to indicate high skills. My uncle has told you something of these things?”

  “If I wanted to know more about the Kikuta family, would you be able to help me?” he said, turning back to her.

  She raised her eyes again to his. “I will tell you anything you want to know.”

  His distrust returned. “Are you sure you are allowed to?”

  “In this I am acting for myself. I am transferring my allegiance from the Tribe to Lord Otori.”

  “Why?” He did not believe her.

  “I want to make amends for the past. I’ve seen the cruelty of the Tohan at work. In the Tribe we are brought up not to care about the differences of right and wrong, nobility and baseness. We have other concerns: our own survival, our own accumulation of power and wealth. I have never been allowed to choose for myself; I have always done what I was told. Obedience is the character trait most highly valued by the Tribe. But since the birth of my sons, I have felt differently. Something happened . . . I can’t tell you exactly what it was, but it shocked me deeply. It made me realize I would rather my sons lived in Lord Otori’s world—not Iida Sadamu’s.”

  “Very touching! And quite unrealistic, since my world has vanished forever.”

  “If you truly believed that, you would be dead,” she said quietly. “The fact that you continue living tells me that your world can be restored, and that it is your hope. Arai, too, still hopes for it. Let us work together for this purpose.”

  He glanced at her, saw her eyes were still fixed on his face, and then looked away. The night was growing colder; he could feel the icy air on his cheeks. He moved a little closer to the brazier.

  “I swear on the lives of my sons,” she said. “I’ve come to you not on the orders of the Tribe, or of Iida, or your uncles or anyone else. Well, Kenji told me to come, but he does not know why I was glad to obey him.”When he still said nothing, she went on. “Arai is not alone among the Seishuu in hoping to see Iida overthrown. Lady Maruyama must also desire it. Especially since Iida has demanded her daughter be sent to Inuyama as a hostage next year.”

  “Is Lady Maruyama also under suspicion?”

  “Less than you. But she was also at Misumi. You spoke to her, perhaps in some secret language, Kitano thinks. And Iida hopes to control her domain either by marriage or by force. He is regrouping his armies, but he will seize on any pretext of disloyalty to act.”

  Shigeru sighed deeply. “Are you trying to tell me something about Lady Maruyama?”

  “Lord Otori, the groom, Bunta, reports to me. Only to me. This is proof, if you like, of my loyalty to you. Bunta told me of your first meeting and the next one.”

  It was what he had feared all along. They had been watched: the Tribe knew, Iida knew. He could not speak; his muscles and blood were frozen.

  “I have never spoken of it until now,” Shizuka went on. “No one else knows.” She added after a moment, “You should not meet again. It has become extremely dangerous. Because Bunta reports only to me, I have been able to keep it secret, but I cannot do that much longer. You should not even write to each other, once Lady Maruyama’s daughter is a hostage in Inuyama.”

  He believed now that she was telling the truth and saw suddenly how much he needed someone like her, with all her Tribe skills, her long-standing connection with Arai, her relationship to Muto Kenji. Her appearance was the unexpected move that, as in Go, opened up the whole game.

  “There are things I would like to find out about the Kikuta.” He drew the writing table toward him and took up the inkstone, then said, “It needs water. Wait here. I’ll fetch us some wine. And do you want something to eat?”

  She shook her head. He stood and went to the door, slid it open, and walked through the next room toward the kitchen. Chiyo was nodding off beside the hearth. He told her to heat some wine and then go to bed.

  She was full of apologies. “Lord Otori has a visitor? I did not know.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I will take the wine myself.”

  Understanding leaped into her eyes. “Your visitor is a woman? Excellent, excellent. You won’t be disturbed, I’ll make sure of it!”