Shigeru dreaded being struck, not from fear of pain but from the ignominy. He could never forget that he was the heir to the Otori clan: his role and his position had been impressed upon his nature before he could even talk. At his mother’s house he had been beaten in punishment for various childish misdemeanors, but since he had lived in the castle, no one had raised a hand against him. No one would have dared, even if there had been a need.
He had suffered the usual mishaps of growing up-concussion from a fall from a horse; a fractured cheekbone from a blow in practice, which turned one side of his face purple; bruises and other scars. From all these he had learned to ignore pain. When finally he could keep his eyelids up no longer and felt his whole body plunge toward sleep, the cuff from the priest was not hard, just enough to wake him. It did not hurt, but it enraged him, sending such a wave of fury from his belly he thought he would faint if he did not immediately hurt someone in return. He clenched his fists and his jaw, struggling to control it, trying to submit his emotions to the calm dispassionate words of the sutras, seeking to let go of all striving, all desires…
But it was impossible: though he sat motionless, his heart smoldered in rage. He was full of desire and passion, full of energy. Why was he squandering all that in this dreary, lifeless place? He did not have to remain: he was wasting his time. He was not even receiving the teaching he had been so eagerly looking forward to. Matsuda was treating him with scorn; so was everyone in the temple. He could leave; no one could stop him: he was the heir to the clan. He could do what he wanted: he did not have to master his desires. He could have them all gratified-he had the power to command whomever he wanted. It was on his father’s wishes that he was here, but he saw his father with a sudden flash of clarity as a weak, self-indulgent, wavering man who did not merit obedience. I would lead the clan better than he. I would not tolerate my uncles’ greed; I would act at once to deal with the Tohan. The Kitano boys would not now be in Inuyama. Then he began to imagine that his uncles had had a say in sending him away, that their influence over his father was greater when he was not there, that even now they were scheming their takeover of the clan while he moldered away here in the gloom and the rain. The idea was intolerable.
Not only was it possible for him to leave, but it was his duty.
These thoughts occupied him for the rest of the day. He lay awake that night despite his tiredness, imagining the women he would have brought to him when he got to Yamagata, the hot baths he would take, the food he would eat. He would leave in the morning, walk down to the inn where his men waited for him, and ride away. No one would dare stop him.
When the bell sounded at midnight, the rain had ceased, though it was still intensely humid. Shigeru felt sticky with sweat; his eyes scratched; his whole body was restless and uncomfortable. Mosquitoes whined around him as he hurried back from the privy. Owls hooted and stars appeared overhead as the clouds broke up. Dawn was still several hours away. If it was not raining, perhaps they would work outside today-but it did not matter to him. He was not going to sneak away like a thief but would simply leave.
After meditation he wanted to change into his own clothes, but they had been stored away. He thought of sending for them but decided against it. He went into the study hall, intending to inform the novice master of his intentions. The other boys were preparing their inkstones for writing practice.
Before he could speak, the older man said, “Don’t sit down, Lord Shigeru. You are to go to Matsuda today.”
“What for?” Shigeru said, somewhat impolitely, confused by this sudden obstacle to his plans, and by its timing.
“He will tell you.” The old man smiled at him and took up the scroll for dictation.
“Begin writing,” he said to the other novices. “The causes of human suffering are manifold…”
“Where will I find him?” Shigeru asked.
“He is waiting for you in his room, across the cloister-the third on the left. Wakefulness is the way to life; the fool sleeps as if he were already dead.” One of the boys stifled a groan.
As Shigeru left the room, he could hear the teacher’s voice continue: “But the master is awake, and he lives forever.”
“Ah, Lord Shigeru.” Matsuda was on his feet, dressed as if he were going on a journey. “The rain has stopped. We can set out today.”
“Sir, where are we going?”
“To study the art of the sword. Isn’t that why your father sent you?” Without waiting for an answer, he indicated two wooden swords lying on the floor. “Pick those up.”
As Shigeru followed him back around the cloister into the entrance, Matsuda said over his shoulder, “But perhaps you have decided to leave us.”
They both paused on the edge of the boards to step into sandals. Matsuda hitched up his robe and tied it into his sash, leaving his legs bare.
“You’d better do the same,” he said. “Otherwise you’ll get your clothes soaked. Skin dries quicker than cloth.”
Puddles dotted the gravel of the courtyard, and the earth smelled of mud and rain. Beyond the gate, the moss of the farther courtyard was a brilliant green. Water still dripped from the heavy thatch of the older roofs, but the sky between the scudding gray and white clouds was a deep summer blue.
“Well?” the old man prompted, looking up into Shigeru’s face.
“I would not leave without consulting you.”
“You are the heir to the clan, Lord Otori. You can do what you want. There is no need for you to consult an old fool like me.”
Shigeru felt the blood tingle in his neck and cheeks. There was nothing he could say. The only choices were to grow angry and leave or to follow Matsuda docilely. He swallowed his rage, feeling as if it burned his gullet.
“You have done me a great honor by agreeing to teach me,” he said. “I think I am a far greater fool than you have ever been.”
“Possibly, possibly.” The old man grunted, smiling to himself. “But then, we’re all fools at fifteen.” He called out, and one of the monks came across the courtyard from the kitchens, carrying two bundles on a carrying pole, fire in a small iron pot, and a bamboo basket.
“Carry these,” Matsuda said, indicating the bundles. He picked up the iron pot and basket himself, sniffing appreciatively.
Shigeru lifted the pole and put it across one shoulder, the two wooden swords across the other. The monk returned with two conical straw hats, which he placed on the others’ heads.
He might be the heir to the clan, but with bare legs, a pole across his shoulders, face hidden under a deep hat, he looked and felt like a servant. He swallowed again, the irritation abrading him inside.
“Good-bye.” Matsuda nodded briefly to the monk.
“When shall we expect you?” he replied.
“Oh, sometime. Whenever.” Matsuda waved vaguely. “You’d better send some more supplies if we’re not back in a month.”
The smell from the basket was already making Shigeru’s stomach ache with hunger, but it seemed a depressingly small amount of food for a month.
The deep shade of the outer gate was pleasant; beyond, the sun seemed hotter and the air stickier. They did not take the stepped path that led down to the inn at the foot of the mountain but instead went upward, following a small stream that cascaded down the slope.
The bundles were not heavy, but it was awkward carrying them through the heavy undergrowth, and the footing was slippery. Insects whined around his head and horseflies bit. Matsuda went at a swift pace, clambering upward as agilely as a monkey, while Shigeru scrambled behind him. Before long he was dripping, soaked as much by the wet grasses and bushes as by his own sweat.