The Harsh Cry of the Heron

by Lian Hearn

  She took another look and noted his vulnerable points. His face was exposed, his eyes fierce and brilliant, and she could see clearly the whiter skin of his throat.

  She stood—the bow arched; the arrow thrummed; the rain splashed around her. Saga looked at her, sat heavily. The man behind him clutched his chest as the arrow pierced his armor. There were shouts of shock and surprise, and now they were shooting at her. One arrow flew past her, striking the pine tree and splintering the bark against her face; another struck the rock at her foot. She felt a sharp jab, as if she had stumbled against a stick, but felt no pain.

  “Get down!” Mai was shouting, but Shigeko did not move; nor did Saga cease staring toward her. She drew the smaller bow from her jacket and set one of the tiny arrows to it. The houou feathers glinted dull gold. I am about to die, she thought, and let it fly like a dart toward his gaze.

  There was a dazzling flash, as though lightning had struck, and the air between them seemed suddenly full of the beating of wings. Around Saga his men dropped their bows and covered their eyes; only Saga himself kept his eyes open, staring at the arrow until it pierced his left eye, and his own blood blinded him.

  ALL THAT MORNING Kahei fought on the southern flank, where he had increased the number of his men, fearing Saga’s forces might attempt to surround the camp from that side. Despite his confident words to Takeo the previous night, he was more worried now, wondering how long his sleep-deprived soldiers could withstand the seemingly endless onslaught, cursing the rain for depriving them of their superior weapons, recalling the last hours of Yaegahara, when the Otori army, realizing their betrayal and inevitable defeat, had fought with a desperate, mad ferocity, until hardly a man was left standing. His own father had been one of the few survivors. Was family history to repeat itself—was he, too, destined to return to Hagi with news of a total defeat?

  His fears only fueled his determination to achieve victory.

  TAKEO FOUGHT IN the center, calling up everything he had ever been taught by warrior Master and the Tribe alike to dominate fatigue and pain, marveling at the determination and discipline of those around him. In a sudden lull, when Saga’s troops had been driven back, he looked down at Tenba’s shoulder and saw the horse was bleeding from a deep slash across the chest, the redness dissolving into the rain-soaked hair. Now the fight had stopped momentarily, the horse seemed to become aware of the wound, and began to shudder in shock. Takeo slipped from his back, calling to one of the foot soldiers to take the horse back to the camp, and prepared to face the next attack on foot.

  A group of horsemen came galloping from the pass, the horses leaping in the air in their efforts not to step on the fallen. The swords flashed, cutting down the foot soldiers, who retreated to the barriers they had erected while the archers on the northern side let fly a volley of arrows. Many found their mark, but Takeo could not help noticing that there were far fewer than the day before, and that the attrition of battle was eroding his forces. Like Kahei’s, his confidence faltered. How many more men did Saga have? The supply seemed endless, and they were all fresh and rested….

  Like the horsemen who were now nearly upon him. With a dull shock he recognized their leader as Kono. He saw the Maruyama horse, his gift now used against him, and felt the pure singe of fury. This man’s father had nearly wrecked his life; the son had intrigued against him, had lied to him, had dared to suggest admiration while plotting his downfall. He took Jato more firmly in his grip, ignoring the building shaft of pain that ran from elbow to shoulder blade, and leaped nimbly sideways so the nobleman would meet him on his left side.

  His first swift stroke upward caught the nobleman’s foot and almost severed it. Kono gave a cry, turned the horse, and came back; now Takeo was on his right-hand side. He ducked under the flailing sword, and would have cut upward again, aiming for the wrist, but heard the next horseman’s sword descend toward his back, split himself, and rolled away from it, trying not to cut himself with his own sword. Now the horses’ hooves were trampling around him. He struggled to find his footing in the mud. His own foot soldiers had rushed forward with spears and pikes; a horse came down heavily next to him, its rider pitching headfirst, already dead, into the mire.

  There was a sudden flash of lightning directly overhead, and the rain fell even more heavily. Through its relentless drumming, Takeo heard another sound, a thin and ghostly music that echoed across the plain. For a moment he could not comprehend what it meant. Then the crush around him thinned. He stood, wiping the rain and the mud from his eyes with his right hand.

  The Maruyama horse passed him, Kono clinging to its mane with both hands; his leg was still spurting blood. He did not seem to notice Takeo; his eyes were fixed on the safety of the pass.

  They are retreating, Takeo thought in disbelief, as the sound of the conch shell was drowned by a roar of triumph and the men around him surged forward to pursue the fleeing enemy.

  47

  The former outcastes, from their village in Maruyama, moved across the battlefield to deal with the injured horses and bury the dead. When the corpses of the fallen were laid out in rows, Kahei, Gemba, and Takeo walked along them, identifying all those they could, while Minoru recorded their names. As for Saga’s men, there were too many to identify; they were buried quickly in one huge pit in the center of the plain. The taking of heads had been forbidden. The soil was stony; the graves were shallow. Crows were already gathering, looming through the rain on huge black wings and cawing to one another from the crags. At night foxes prowled, and Takeo knew once the humans had departed the foxes would be joined by the shyer wolves, who would feast all summer.

  The stakes of the palisades were pulled out and litters constructed from some of them to carry the wounded back to Inuyama. The rest were used to erect a barrier across the pass, and Sonoda Mitsuru and two hundred of his men remained to guard it. By the evening of the following day, when the dead were buried, the defenses were in place, and there had been no sign of Saga returning, it seemed as if the battle was truly over. Kahei gave the order to rest; men took off their armor, laid down their weapons, and fell instantly asleep.

  The rain had slackened to a drizzle after the sudden downpour at the moment when Saga Hideki had been wounded and had ordered the retreat. Takeo walked among the sleeping men as he had walked earlier among the dead, hearing the soft hiss of the drops on leaves and rocks, the distant splash of the waterfall, the evening birdsong, feeling the moisture bead his face and hair. The entire right side of his body from shoulder to heel ached fiercely, and relief at victory was tempered by sorrow at its cost. He also knew that the exhausted soldiers could sleep only till dawn, and must then be mustered for the march back to Inuyama, and then on into the Middle Country to prevent Zenko rising in the West. He himself was deeply anxious to return as soon as possible; Gemba’s warning of some unknown event that had upset the harmony of his rule now returned to torment him. It could only mean something had happened to Kaede…

  Hiroshi had been moved into Kahei’s shelter, which offered the greatest comfort and the most protection from the rain. Takeo found his daughter there, barely recognizable, still in her fighting garb, her face still covered in mud, her foot roughly bandaged.

  “How is he?” he asked, kneeling beside Hiroshi, noting the pale face and shallow breath.

  “He is still alive,” Shigeko replied in a low voice. “I think he is a little better.”

  “We will transport him to Inuyama tomorrow. Sonoda’s physicians will take care of him.”

  He spoke with confidence, though privately he did not think Hiroshi would last the journey. Shigeko nodded without speaking.

  “Were you wounded?” Takeo said.

  “An arrow struck me in the foot. It’s not serious. I didn’t realize till afterward. I could hardly walk back. Mai almost had to carry me.”

  He did not understand what she was saying.

  “Where did you and Mai go? I thought you were with Gemba.”

  Shigeko
looked at him and said quickly, “She took me to where Lord Saga was. I shot him in the eye.” Tears suddenly filled her eyes. “He will never want to marry me now!” The tears turned to a kind of shocked laughter.

  “So we have you to thank for his sudden retreat?” Takeo was overwhelmed by a sense of the justice of this outcome. Saga had not accepted his defeat in the peaceful contest, but had sought conflict—now Shigeko had dealt him a serious, possibly fatal wound, and had ensured their victory.

  “I tried not to kill him, only to wound him,” she said. “Just as I tried all the time, all through the battle, to disable but not to kill.”

  “You have acquitted yourself marvelously,” he replied, masking his emotion with formal language. “You are a true heir to the Otori and to the Maruyama.”

  His praise brought the tears again.

  “You are exhausted,” he said.

  “No more than anyone else; no more than you. You must sleep, Father.”

  “I will, as soon as I have checked on Tenba. I want to ride on ahead to Inuyama. Kahei will bring the men. You and Gemba must escort Hiroshi and the other wounded. I hope Tenba is fit—if not I will leave him with you.”

  “And the kirin,” Shigeko said.

  “Yes, and the poor kirin. It did not know what a journey it was coming on, or what impact it would have in this strange land.”

  “You cannot ride alone, Father. Take someone with you. Take Gemba. And you can ride Ashige; I do not need a horse.”

  The clouds were breaking up slightly, and there was a faint glow in the west as the sun set, the hint of a rainbow in the opposite sky. He hoped it would mean a drier day tomorrow, though now the rains had begun they were likely to continue for weeks.

  Tenba stood next to the kirin, back to the drizzle, head lowered. He gave a small whicker of greeting as Takeo approached. The wound on his chest had already closed over, and seemed clean, but when Takeo led him out he was lame on the right side, though his feet seemed unharmed. Takeo concluded the shoulder muscles were inflamed, took the horse to the pool, and spent some time applying cold water, but Tenba still favored the right foreleg, and could probably not be ridden. Takeo then recalled Hiroshi’s horse, Keri. He could not find it among the living horses. The black-maned, pale gray horse, Raku’s son, must have been killed in the battle, just a few weeks after its half-brother, Taku’s horse Ryume. The horses had reached seventeen years, a fine age, yet their death saddened him. Taku was gone, Hiroshi near death. His mood was somber as he returned to the shelter. It was dim inside, the light pallid. Shigeko had fallen asleep next to Hiroshi, her face close to his. Like a married couple.

  Takeo looked at them with deep affection. “Now you may marry as you desire,” he said aloud.

  He knelt beside Hiroshi and placed his hand on his brow. The young man felt cooler; his breathing had slowed and deepened. Takeo had thought he was unconscious, but Hiroshi suddenly opened his eyes and smiled.

  “Lord Takeo…” he whispered.

  “Don’t try to talk. You are going to be all right.”

  “The battle?”

  “It’s over. Saga is in retreat.”

  Hiroshi closed his eyes again, but the smile did not leave his lips.

  Takeo lay down, his spirits a little lightened. Despite the pain, sleep fell on him at once, like a dark, obliterating cloud.

  HE LEFT FOR Inuyama the following morning, with Gemba, as Shigeko had suggested, and Minoru, who rode on his own placid mare. Both the mare and Gemba’s black were as fresh as Ashige, and their passage was swift. By the third day a mild wound fever had hit Takeo, and the hours passed in slow agony as his body fought its effects. He was plagued by dreams and hallucinations; he alternately burned and shivered, but refused to abandon the journey. At each stopping place they spread the word of the battle and its outcome, and soon a stream of people began to make their way up into the High Cloud Range to take food to the warriors and help bring the wounded home.

  The rain had fallen heavily throughout the Three Countries, making the rice grow and swell, but it had come late and the harvest would suffer because of it. The roads were muddy and frequently flooded. Often Takeo forgot where he was, and thought he was back in the past, riding Aoi alongside Makoto toward a flooded river and a broken bridge.

  Kaede must be cold, he thought. She has not been well. I must get to her and warm her.

  But he was shivering himself, and suddenly Yuki was beside him. “You look cold,” she said. “Shall I bring tea?”

  “Yes,” he said. “But I must not lie with you, because I am married.”

  Then he remembered Yuki was dead and would never lie with him or anyone else again, and felt piercing regret for her fate and the part he had played in it.

  By the time they reached Inuyama the fever had abated and he was lucid again, but his anxieties remained. They were not even dispelled by the heartfelt welcome he received from the townspeople, who celebrated his return and the news of victory with dancing in the streets. Kaede’s sister, Ai, came out to greet him in the castle bailey, where he was helped down from the horse by Minoru and Gemba.

  “Your husband is safe,” he told her at once, and saw her face lighten with relief.

  “Heaven be thanked,” she replied. “But you are wounded?”

  “I believe I am over the worst of it. Do you have news from my wife? I have heard nothing since we left in the fourth month.”

  “Lord Takeo,” she began, and his heart fell in dread. It had begun to rain again, and servants ran forward with umbrellas, gleaming in the gray air.

  “Dr. Ishida is here,” she went on. “I will send for him at once. He will take care of you.”

  “Ishida is here? Why?”

  “He will tell you everything,” Ai said, her gentleness terrifying him. “Come inside. Will you bathe first? And we will prepare food for you all.”

  “Yes, I will bathe,” he replied, wanting both to delay the news and to face it prepared and strengthened. The recent fever and pain had left him light-headed—his hearing seemed more than usually acute, each sound ringing painfully distinct in his ears.

  He and Gemba went to the hot spring pools and stripped off their filthy robes. Gemba carefully took away the bandage from Takeo’s shoulder and arm and washed the wound with scalding water, turning him even more faint.

  “It’s healing well,” Gemba said, but Takeo made no reply beyond nodding in assent; nor did they speak as they washed and rinsed themselves and entered the bubbling, sulfurous water. The rain fell gently on their faces and shoulders, surrounding them as if they had been transported to another world.

  “I cannot stay here forever,” Takeo said finally. “Will you come with me to hear what has brought Ishida to Inuyama?”

  “Of course,” Gemba said. “To know the worst is to know how to go forward.”

  Ai brought soup and grilled fish, rice and summer vegetables, and served them herself. They ate quickly; she told the maids to remove the trays and bring tea. When they returned, Dr. Ishida was with them.

  Ai poured the tea into the dark-blue glazed bowls. “I will leave you now.” As she knelt to slide open the door, Takeo saw her put her sleeve to her eyes to wipe away tears.

  “Not another wound?” Ishida said, after they had exchanged greetings. “Let me look at it.”

  “Later,” Takeo said. “It is healing now.”

  He took a sip of tea, barely tasting it. “You have not come all this way with good news, I imagine.”

  “I thought you should know as soon as possible,” Ishida replied. “Forgive me, I feel it is all my fault. You left your wife and son in my care. These things happen; infants have a precarious grip on life. They slip away from us.” He stopped and stared helplessly at Takeo, his mouth working in grief, tears on his cheeks.

  Takeo’s blood was pounding in his ears. “Are you telling me my son is dead?” The rush of grief took him by surprise, and tears immediately burst from his eyes. The tiny creature, whom he had hardly known,
he was now never to know.

  I cannot bear this new blow, he thought, and then, If I cannot bear it, how can Kaede?

  “I must go to my wife at once,” he said. “How has she taken it? Was it some illness? Is she sick as well?”

  “It was one of those inexplicable childhood deaths,” Ishida said, his voice breaking. “The boy was perfectly healthy the night before, fed well, smiled and laughed, and fell asleep without fussing, but never woke again.”

  “How can that be?” Takeo said, almost angrily. “It was not witchcraft? What about poison?” Hana was in Hagi, he remembered; could she have brought about his son’s death?

  He wept, making no attempt to hide it.

  “There was no sign of poison,” Ishida said. “As for witchcraft—I really have no idea. These deaths are not uncommon, but I know nothing about their cause.”

  “And my wife—how is her state? She must be half-mad with grief. Is Shizuka with her?”

  “Many terrible things have happened since you went away,” Ishida whispered. “My wife has also recently lost a son. She has gone mad with grief, it seems. She sits without eating in front of Daifukuji, in Hofu, and calls for her other son to act with justice. In response, Zenko has retired in rage to Kumamoto, where he is raising an army.”

  “Zenko’s wife and sons are in Hagi,” Takeo said. “Surely he will not throw away their lives.”

  “Hana and the boys are no longer in Hagi,” Ishida said.

  “What? Kaede let them go?”

  “Lord Takeo,” Ishida said miserably. “She has gone with them. They are all on their way back to Kumamoto.”

  “Ah!” Gemba said quietly. “Now we know what went wrong.” He did not weep, but an expression of sorrow and compassion came into his face. He moved a little closer to Takeo, as if he would physically hold him up.