He felt a moment of sorrow as his stomach reminded him what that one extra mouth to feed would mean, but he put the feeling from him. Wasn’t one of the old teachings about welcoming strangers, who might be angels in disguise?

He shooed the rest of the villagers away, seemingly ignoring their murmured pleas to at least be allowed to look at the needles, the cloth, the knives, all precious items to them, but inwardly wondering if he might perhaps secure a few needles for the women, something pretty for the girls…

His wife was adding the mushrooms to the soup; the inside of the house was smoky and warm. Outside it was growing colder by the minute; he thought again that they would have the first frost that night.

“You would indeed have been cold sleeping outside,” he remarked as his wife poured the soup into the old wooden bowls.

The youngest child, Madaren, innocently began to say the first prayer over the food. Sara put out a hand to hush her, but the peddler very quietly finished her words and then spoke the second prayer.

There was a long moment of silence, and then Shimon whispered, “You are one of us?”

The peddler nodded. “I did not know there were any here; I had never heard of this village.” He drank his soup noisily. “Be thankful no one else knows of your existence, for Iida Sadamu hates us and many have died in Inuyama, even as far west as Noguchi and Yamagata in the Middle Country. If Iida ever succeeds in conquering the Three Countries, he will wipe us out.”

“We are no threat to Lord Iida or to anyone,” Sara said. “And we are safe here. My husband and Isao, our leader, are respected; they help everyone. Everyone likes us; no one will harm us here.”

“I pray that he will protect you,” the peddler said.

Shimon noticed the puzzlement in his daughters’ eyes. “We are safe under his protection,” he said swiftly, dreading seeing that puzzlement turn to fear. “Like the little chicks under the mother hen’s wings.”

When the sparse meal was finished, the peddler insisted on showing them his wares, saying, “You must choose something: it will be payment, as I said.”

“It is not necessary,” Shimon replied politely, but he was curious to see what else the man carried, and he was still thinking about the needles; they were so useful, so easily lost or broken, so hard to replace.

Sara brought a lamp. They rarely lit them, usually going to bed as soon as darkness fell. The unusual light, the precious objects made them all excited. The little girls stared with shining eyes as the peddler unwrapped squares of woven cloth in pretty patterns, needles, a small doll carved from wood, spoons made of red lacquer, skeins of colored thread, a bolt of indigo-dyed hemp cloth, and several knives, one of which was more like a short sword, though it had a plain hilt and no scabbard.

Shimon could not help noticing that Tomasu’s eyes were drawn to it and that, as the boy leaned forward into the light to look more closely, his right hand seemed to curve as though the sword were already settling against the line across his palm.

The peddler was watching him, a slight frown between his eyes. “You like it? You should not!”

“Why do you carry such instruments of murder?” Sara said quietly.

“People offer me things in exchange,” he replied, lifting the sword carefully and rewrapping it. “I’ll sell it somewhere.”

“Why don’t we have weapons?” Tomasu whispered. “We would not be so defenseless then against those who seek to kill us.”

“The Secret One is our defense,” Shimon said.

“It is better to die ourselves than to take the life of another,” Sara added. “We have taught you that all your life.”

The boy flushed a little under their rebukes and did not reply.

“Did that knife kill someone?” Maruta asked, recoiling slightly as if it were a snake.

“That is what it is made for,” Shimon told her.

“Or to kill yourself with,” the peddler said and, seeing the children’s astonished eyes, could not resist embellishing. “Warriors think it is honorable in certain circumstances to take their own lives. They cut their bellies open with a sword like this one!”

“It is a terrible sin,” Sara murmured, and taking Maruta’s hand, she traced the sign of the Hidden on it. “May he protect us not only from death but from the sin of killing!”

The men whispered their assent, but Tomasu said, “We are not likely to kill; we have no enemies here and no weapons.” Then he seemed to become aware of his mother’s disapproval. “I pray, too, that we may never have either,” he said seriously.

Sara poured tea for everyone, and they ended the evening with a final prayer for the coming of the kingdom of peace. The peddler gave the doll to Madaren and to Maruta some red cords for her hair. Shimon asked for needles and received five.

The next morning before he left, the peddler insisted on leaving the hemp cloth. “Have your wife make you a new robe.”

“It is too valuable,” Shimon remonstrated. “We have done so little for you.”

“It’s heavy,” the man replied. “You’ll be saving me the trouble of carrying it farther. I’m grateful to you, and we are fellow-believers, brethren.”

“Thank you,” Shimon said, taking it gratefully. He had never owned anything so costly. “Will you return here? You are welcome to stay with us at any time.”

“I will try to come again, but it won’t be for months. Next year or the year after.”

“Where will you go from here?” Shimon asked.

“I was going to try to get to Hinode, but I think I’ll give up that plan. I want to be in the West next year. If your son can show me the way back to the river, the Inugawa, I can get to Hofu by ship before winter comes.”

“Do you travel throughout the Three Countries?”

“I have been all over; I have even been to Hagi.” The peddler picked up the frame, and Shimon helped fix it on his back.

“I have never even heard of Hagi,” he admitted.

“It is the main city of the Otori, who were defeated by Iida at the Battle of Yaegahara. You must have heard of that!”

“Yes, we heard of it,” Shimon said. “How terrible the struggles between the clans are!”

“May He protect us from them,” the peddler said. He was silent for a few moments, then seemed to shake himself.

“Well, I must go. Thank you again, and take care of yourselves.”

Both men looked around for Tomasu. Shimon noted with approval that he was already at work, gathering fallen leaves to spread on the empty fields, which were white with frost. He was about to call him when the peddler remarked, “He does not look like you. Is he your own son?”

“Yes,” Shimon heard himself say, and even added, “He takes after my wife’s father.” He was suddenly uneasy at the man’s curiosity and garrulity. “I will show you the way myself,” he said. He was afraid that if Tomasu left with the peddler he might never come back.