The Harsh Cry of the Heron

by Lian Hearn

  Hiroshi spoke in a loud voice. “Lady Maruyama Shigeko, daughter of Shirakawa Kaede and second cousin of Maruyama Naomi, we welcome you to the domain which has been held in trust for you.”

  He slipped his feet from the stirrups and dismounted, drew his sword from his belt and, kneeling before her, held it out in both hands.

  Tenba startled for an instant at the man’s sudden move, and Takeo saw Hiroshi break his composure in alarm. He realized it was far more than a vassal’s concern for his lady. He recalled the weeks they had spent breaking in the horse together. His earlier suspicions were confirmed. He did not know his daughter’s feelings, but there was no doubt about Hiroshi’s. It seemed so obvious to him now he could not believe he had not realized it before. He was torn between irritation and pity—it was impossible to give Hiroshi what he wanted—yet he admired the young man’s self-control and dedication. It is because they were brought up together, he thought. She is fond of him, like a brother, but her heart is not touched. But he watched his daughter closely as two of the women dismounted and came to hold Tenba’s reins. Shigeko slid gracefully off the horse’s back and faced Hiroshi. As he looked up at her, their eyes met. She smiled very slightly at him and took the sword from him. Then she turned and held it out toward each direction in turn, bowing over it to the crowd, to her vassals and her people.

  A great shout rose, as if everyone present spoke in one voice, and then the sound broke, like a wave on a shingle, into bursts of cheering. The horses pranced in excitement. Shigeko thrust the sword in her belt and remounted, as did the other women. The horses galloped around the bailey, then fell into line along the straight edge, toward the target. Each rider dropped the reins on her horse’s neck, took the bow, placed the arrow and drew, all in one swift, fluid movement. The arrows flew one after another, hitting the targets with a repetition of thunks. Finally Shigeko rode, the black horse flying like the wind, like a horse of Heaven, and her arrow hit true. She turned the horse and galloped back, pulling him to a halt in front of Takeo. She leaped from Tenba’s back and spoke in a loud voice, “The Maruyama swear allegiance and loyalty to the Otori, and in recognition I present this horse to Lord Takeo, my father.” She held out the reins in her hand, and bowed her head.

  Another roar came from the crowd as Takeo rose and stepped down from the platform. He approached Shigeko and took the reins of the horse from her, more moved than he could say. The horse dropped its head and rubbed it against his shoulder. It was most obviously from the same line as Shigeru’s horse Kyu, and Aoi, who had been fatally injured by the ogre Jin-emon. He was aware of the past all around him, the spirits of the dead, their approving gaze, and he felt pride and gratitude that he and Kaede had raised this beautiful child, that she had reached adulthood and come into her inheritance.

  “I hope he will come to be as dear to you as Shun,” she said.

  “I have never seen a finer horse—and when he moves he seems to fly.” He was already longing to feel the horse’s strength beneath him, to begin the long mysterious bonding between creatures. He will outlive me, he thought with gladness.

  “Will you try him?”

  “I am not dressed for riding,” Takeo said. “Let me lead him back, and we will ride out together later. In the meantime, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. You could not have given me a better gift.”

  NEAR THE END of the afternoon, when the sun was sinking toward the West, they rode in its path across the coastal plain toward the mouth of the river. The company consisted not only of Takeo, Shigeko, and Hiroshi—though the three of them would have preferred it—but also of Lord Kono, Zenko, and Hana. Zenko declared he was surfeited with feasting and ceremonies and needed a good gallop to clear his mind. Hana wanted to take out the hawks, and Kono confessed to sharing her passion for hawking. Their route took them past the outcastes’ village, which Takeo had established long ago, when Jo-An was still alive. The outcastes still tanned hides here, and were shunned on that account but were left in peace, protected by the laws of the Three Countries. Now the sons of the men who built the bridge that enabled Takeo to escape from the Otori army worked alongside their fathers and uncles; the young people looked as well fed and healthy as the old.

  Takeo stopped to greet the headman of the village with Hiroshi and Shigeko, while the others rode on. When they caught up with the hunting party, the hawks were already released, hovering high over the grasses, which swayed like the waves of the sea, the last rays of the sun glowing through the tasseled heads.

  Takeo had been getting the feel of the new horse, letting him extend his gallop across the plain. He was more excitable than Shun had been, possibly not quite as clever, but eager to please and equally responsive, and much faster. He shied once when a partridge shot under his feet with a whirring of its barred wings, and Takeo had to exert some force to remind him who was in control. But I will not have to rely on him in battle, he told himself. Those days are over.

  “You have handled him well,” he told Shigeko. “He seems to have no faults.”

  “Whatever disabilities Lord Otori has, they have not impaired his horsemanship,” Kono commented.

  “Indeed, I forget them when I am riding,” Takeo said, smiling. Horse riding made him feel like a young man again. He felt he could almost like Kono, that he had misjudged him, and then chided himself for being so susceptible to flattery.

  Above his head the four hawks wheeled, two stooping at the same time and plummeting to earth. One rose again, a partridge in its curved talons, the down fluttering; the other screeched in fury. It reminded him that as the strong feed on the weak, so would his enemies feed on him. He imagined them like hawks, hovering, waiting.

  They rode back at dusk, the full moon rising behind the plumed grasses, the rabbit shape clearly visible on the gleaming disk. The streets were thronged with people, shrines and shops overflowing, the air filled with roasting rice cakes, grilled fish and eels, sesame oil and soy. Takeo was gratified with the response of the crowd. The townspeople gave way respectfully, many kneeling spontaneously or shouting his and Shigeko’s names, but they were not cowed, nor did they stare after him with the desperate, hungry look that had followed Lord Shigeru all those years ago, of which he himself had once been the target. They no longer needed a hero to save them. They saw their prosperity and peace as their rightful way of living, achieved by their own hard work and intelligence.

  27

  Castle and town had fallen silent. The moon had set; the night sky was spangled with brilliant stars. Takeo sat with Minoru, two lamps burning near them, going over the evening’s conversation and the young man’s impressions.

  “I am going out for a while,” Takeo said when they had finished. “I must see Taku before I leave, and that must be within the next two days if we are to get Kono to Hofu before winter. Stay here, and if anyone should come asking for me, pretend we are conducting some urgent and confidential business and cannot be disturbed. I will be back before dawn.”

  Minoru was used to such arrangements and made no response beyond bowing. He helped Takeo change into the dark clothes he often wore at night. Takeo wound a scarf around his head to hide his face, took two flasks of wine, a short sword, and the holster of throwing knives, and hid them inside his garments. He stepped out onto the veranda and disappeared into the night.

  If Kono could see me now, he thought as he passed the nobleman’s rooms and heard him breathing deeply in sleep. But he knew no one would see him, for he was cloaked in the invisibility of the Tribe.

  If horse riding made him feel young again, so did this—he had left the Tribe; his family, the Kikuta, had pursued him nearly half his life; but the deep pleasure the ancient skills bring had never left him. At the end of the garden he listened intently for a few moments and, hearing no sound leaped to the top of the wall between the garden and the first bailey. He ran along the top of the wall to the opposite side and dropped down to the horse ground within the second bailey. The banners still hung there, limp u
nder the starlight. He thought it too cold for swimming, so after crossing to the farther side scaled the wall there and followed it around to the main gate. The guards were awake—he could hear them talking as he crossed the wide, curved roof, but they did not hear him. He ran over the bridge, let visibility return on the far side, and walked swiftly into the maze of streets beyond.

  He knew the house where Taku would be—the old Muto residence. At one time he had known every Tribe house in Maruyama, its position, size, and inhabitants. He still felt deep regret at the way he had used this knowledge when he had first come to Maruyama with Kaede; determined to demonstrate his ruthlessness to the Tribe, he had pursued them, had killed or executed most of them. He had thought the only way to deal with the evil was to eradicate it, but now if he had that time over, surely he would try to negotiate without shedding blood…. The dilemma still faced him: If he had shown weakness then, he would not now be strong enough to impose his will with compassion. The Tribe might hate him for it, but at least they did not despise him. He had bought enough time to make his country secure.

  At the shrine at the end of the street he stopped, as he always did, and placed the flasks of wine in front of the Muto family’s god, asking for forgiveness from the spirits of the dead.

  Muto Kenji forgave me, he told them, and I him. We became close friends and allies. May you be the same to me.

  Nothing broke the silence of the night, but he sensed he was not alone. He shrank back into the shadows, his hand on the sword’s hilt. Leaves had already fallen from the trees, and he could hear a slight rustling, as if some creature were moving across them. He peered toward the sound, and saw the leaves scatter gently under the unseen tread. He cupped his hands over his eyes to open the pupils further, and then looked sideways out of the corner of his left eye to detect invisibility. The creature was staring at him, its eyes green in the starlight.

  Just a cat, he thought, a trick of the light—and then realized with a jolt of surprise that its gaze had trapped his; he felt the shock of pure fear. It was something supernatural, some ghostly being that dwelt in this place, sent by the dead to punish him. He felt he was about to be plunged into the Kikuta sleep, that their assassins had caught up with him and were using this ghostly being to corner him. He himself moved into the almost supernatural state that attack of any sort induced in him. It was second nature to him now to defend himself instantly, to kill before he was killed. Summoning up all his own power, he broke its gaze, fumbling for the throwing knives. The first came into his hand and he hurled it, saw the starlight catch it as it spun, heard the slight impact and the creature’s cry of pain. It lost invisibility at the same moment as it leaped toward him.

  Now the sword was in his hand. He saw the tawny throat and bared teeth. It was a cat, but a cat with the size and strength of a wolf. One set of claws raked his face as he dived sideways and turned to come up close enough to stab it in the throat, losing invisibility himself in order to focus on the blow.

  But the cat twisted away. It cried in an almost human voice, and through the shock and fear of the fight he heard something he recognized.

  “Father,” it cried again. “Don’t hurt me! It’s me, Maya.”

  The girl stood before him. It took all his strength and will to halt the knife thrust that nearly cut his daughter’s throat. He heard his own desperate yell as he forced his hand to turn the blade away. The knife fell from his fingers. He reached out to her and touched her face, felt the wet of blood or tears or both.

  “I nearly killed you,” he said, and wondered with a sense of horror and pity whether she could be killed, aware of the tears in his own eyes, and when he raised his sleeve to wipe them away, he felt the sting of the scratch, the blood dripping from his face. “What are you doing here? Why are you out here on your own?” It was almost a relief to express his confusion in anger. He wanted to slap her, as he might have done when she misbehaved as a child, but what had happened to her had put her beyond childhood. And it was his blood that made her what she was.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She was crying like a child, incoherent with distress. He pulled her into his arms and held her tightly, surprised by how much she had grown. Her head came up to the center of his breastbone; her body was lean and hard, more like a boy’s than a girl’s.

  “Don’t cry,” he said with assumed calmness. “We will go and see Taku, and he will tell me what has been happening to you.”

  “I’m sorry because I’m crying,” she said in a muffled voice.

  “I thought you might be sorry because you tried to kill your own father,” he replied, leading her by the hand through the shrine gate and into the street.

  “I did not know it was you. I could not see you. I thought you were some Kikuta assassin. As soon as I recognized you, I changed. I can’t always do that immediately, but I’m getting better. I did not need to cry, though. I never cry. Why did I cry then?”

  “Perhaps you were happy to see me?”

  “I am,” she assured him. “But I have never cried for joy. It must have been the shock. Well, I’ll never cry again!”

  “There is nothing wrong with crying,” Takeo said. “I was also crying.”

  “Why? Did I hurt you? It must be nothing compared to the wounds you have already suffered.” She touched her own face. “You hurt me worse.”

  “And I am deeply sorry. I would rather die than hurt you.”

  She has changed, he was thinking; even her speech is more abrupt, more unfeeling. And there was some stronger accusation behind her words, something more than the physical wound. What other grievance did she hold against him? Was it resentment at being sent away, or something else?

  “You should not be out here alone.”

  “It is not Taku’s fault,” Maya said quickly. “You must not blame him.”

  “Who else do I blame? I entrusted you to him. And where is Sada? I saw the three of you together earlier today. Why is she not with you?”

  “Wasn’t it wonderful?” Maya said, evading his questions. “Shigeko looked so beautiful. And the horse! Did you like your present, Father? Were you surprised?”

  “Either they are negligent or you are disobedient,” Takeo said, refusing to be distracted by her sudden childish speech.

  “I was disobedient. But it’s as if I have to be. Because I can do things no one else can do, so there is no one to teach me. I have to find out on my own.” She shot a glance up at him. “I suppose Father has never done that?”

  Again he sensed a deeper challenge. He could not deny it, but he decided not to answer, faced now—for they were approaching the gate of the Muto residence—with the problem of how to get inside. His face was smarting, and his body ached from the sudden, intense fight. He could not see Maya’s wound clearly, but could picture its jagged edge—it must be treated immediately. It would scar, almost certainly, leaving her with an identifiable mark.

  “Is the family here trustworthy?” he whispered.

  “I have never asked myself!” Maya replied. “They are Muto, Taku’s relatives and Sada’s. Surely they are?”

  “Well, we will soon find out,” Takeo muttered, and rapped on the barred gate, calling to the guards within. Dogs began barking furiously.

  It took a few moments to convince them to open the gate—they did not recognize Takeo immediately, but they knew Maya. They saw the blood in the light of their lamps, exclaimed in surprise and called for Taku—but, Takeo noticed, none of them touched her. Indeed, they avoided coming close to her, so she stood as if surrounded by an invisible fence.

  “And you, sir, are you hurt too?” One of the men held the lamp up so its light fell on his cheek. He made no effort to dissemble his features; he wanted to check their reaction.

  “It is Lord Otori!” the man whispered, and the others all immediately dropped to the ground. “Come in, lord.” The man holding the lamp stood aside, lighting the threshold.

  “Get up,” Takeo said to the prostrate men. “Bring water, and
some soft paper or silk wads to staunch the bleeding.” He stepped over the threshold, and the gate was swiftly shut and barred behind him.

  The household was awake by now; lamps were lit within, and maids came out, blinking sleepily. Taku came from the end of the veranda, dressed in a cotton sleeping robe, a padded jacket flung over his shoulders. He saw Maya first, and went straight to her. Takeo thought he was going to hit her—but Taku beckoned to the guard to bring the light, and, holding Maya’s head in both hands, tilted it sideways so he could see the wound in her cheek.

  “What happened?” he said.

  “It was an accident,” Maya replied. “I got in the way.”

  Taku led her to the veranda, made her sit down, and knelt next to her, taking a wad of paper from the maid and soaking it in water. He bathed the wound carefully, calling for the light to be held closer.

  “This looks like a throwing knife. Who was out there with a throwing knife?”

  “Sir, Lord Otori is here,” the guard said. “He is also hurt.”

  “Lord Takeo?” Taku peered toward him. “Forgive me, I did not see you. You are not badly hurt?”

  “It’s nothing,” Takeo said, moving toward the veranda. At the step, one of the maids came forward to take off his sandals. He knelt next to Maya. “It may be hard to explain how I came by it, though. The marks will be visible for a while.”

  “I am sorry,” Taku began, but Takeo held up a hand to silence him.

  “We’ll talk later. See what you can do for my daughter’s wound. I am afraid it will leave a noticeable scar.”

  “Get Sada,” Taku ordered one of the maids, and a few moments later the young woman came, also from the far end of the veranda, dressed like Taku in a sleeping robe, her shoulder-length hair loose round her face. She looked quickly at Maya and went into the house, returning with a small box.

  “It’s a salve Ishida prepares for us,” Taku said, taking it and opening it. “The knife was not poisoned, I hope?”