“Shigeru!” he screamed. “They’re stuck under the weir!”

Shigeru thought of nothing now except that he could not let Takeshi die in the river. He dived down into the murky water, feeling the strengthening power of the tide. He saw the cloudy figures like shadows, their pale limbs entwined together as though they were still fighting. Yuta, older and heavier, was on the outer side. Pushed against the wooden structure of the weir, in his panic he had forced Takeshi farther between the piles. Yuta’s loincloth seemed to be snagged on a jagged piece of wood.

Shigeru was counting under his breath to keep himself calm. The blood was beginning to pound in his ears as his lungs demanded air. He pulled at the sodden cloth, but it would not come free. He could not get Yuta out of the way to reach Takeshi. He felt a movement in the water next to him and realized he was not alone. He thought it was Kahei but saw the pale outline of a girl’s breast against the darkened wood and the green weed. She grasped Yuta and jerked at him. The cloth broke free. The boy’s mouth was open; no bubbles came from it. He looked already dead. Shigeru could save one but not both, and at that moment he could think of no one but Takeshi. He dived farther in and grabbed his brother’s arms.

His lungs were bursting, his vision red. Takeshi’s limbs seemed to move, but it was only the river’s current rocking them. He seemed extraordinarily heavy, too heavy for an eight-year-old, far too heavy for Shigeru to lift. But he would not let go. He would die in the river with his brother before he left him alone in it. The girl was alongside him, dragging at Takeshi, lifting them both upward. He could just make out her eyes, dark and intense with effort. She swam like a cormorant, better than he did.

The light above was tantalizingly near. He could see its fractured surface, but he could not reach it. He opened his mouth involuntarily-maybe to breathe, maybe to call for help-and took in a mouthful of water. His lungs seemed to scream in pain. The river had become a prison, its water no longer fluid and soft but now a solid membrane closing around him, choking him.

Swim up. Swim up. It was as if she had spoken to him. Without knowing how, he found a tiny amount of strength left. The light brightened dazzlingly, and then his head broke through the surface and he was gulping air. The river relaxed its serpent grip and held him up-and held Takeshi up in his arms.

His brother’s eyes were closed; he did not seem to be breathing. Treading water, shivering, Shigeru placed his mouth over his brother’s and gave him his breath, calling on all the gods and spirits to help him, rebuking the river god, rebuking death itself, refusing to let them take Takeshi down into their dark world.

Guards from the house had appeared on the riverbank and were splashing into the water. One of them took Takeshi and swam strongly back to the shore. Another plucked Kahei up and helped him swim back. A third tried to help Shigeru, but he pushed him away.

“Mori Yuta is still down there. Bring him up.”

The man’s face blanched and he dived immediately.

Shigeru could hear the youngest Mori boy sobbing on the weir. Somewhere in the distance a woman was screaming, a high sound like a curlew. As he swam to the shore and staggered from the water, Shigeru was aware of the ordinary peacefulness of the late afternoon, the warmth of the sun, the smells of blossom and mud, the soft touch of the south wind.

The guard had laid Takeshi facedown on the beach and was kneeling beside him, pushing gently on his back to empty the water from his lungs. The man’s face was shocked and somber, and he kept shaking his head.

“Takeshi!” Shigeru called. “Wake up! Takeshi!”

“Lord Shigeru,” the guard began, his voice trembling. He could not speak the terrible fear and, in his emotion, pressed more strongly on the child’s shoulders.

Takeshi’s eyes flickered and he coughed violently. Water streamed from his mouth, and he choked, cried out, and retched. Shigeru raised him, wiped his face and held him as the boy retched again. He felt his eyes grow hot and thought Takeshi might weep from relief or shock, but the boy struggled to his feet, pushing Shigeru away.

“Where’s Yuta? Did I beat him? That’ll teach him to come on our bridge!”

Takeshi’s loincloth and sleeves were full of stones. The guard tipped them out, laughing.

“Your weapons nearly killed you! Not so clever, was it!”

“Yuta pushed me in!” Takeshi cried.

Despite Takeshi’s protests, the man carried him back to the house. News of the accident had traveled fast; the maids from the household had come running into the street and were crowded on the bank.

Shigeru gathered up his clothes from the mud and put them on. He wondered if he should bathe and change before he saw his mother. He looked back at the river. The girl had climbed back into her boat and dressed herself again. She did not look toward him but began to row downstream against the tide. Men were still diving repeatedly for Yuta. Shigeru remembered the clinging, stifling embrace of the river and shivered again, despite the warmth of the sun. He bent and picked up one of the smallest stones-a round black pebble, water-smoothed.

“Lord Shigeru!” Chiyo was calling to him. “Come,” she said, “I’ll find you fresh clothes.”

“You must apologize to my mother for me,” he said as he vaulted up onto the bank. “I am sorry to keep her waiting.”

“I don’t believe she will be angry,” Chiyo said, smiling. She took a quick look at Shigeru’s face. “She will be proud of you, and your father too. Don’t be sad, don’t fret over it. You saved your brother’s life.”

He was weakened by relief. The enormity of what might have happened was still too close. If he had not been in the garden; if Akira had not found him; if he had called the guards first; if the girl had not dived down after him… He had been brought up to have no fear of death, nor to grieve excessively over the deaths of others, but he had not yet lost anyone close to him, and he had not realized how fierce was his love for his brother. Grief came close to him with its gray numbing breath and its array of insidious weapons to flay the heart and torment the mind. He saw how grief was an enemy to be feared far more than any warrior; he realized he would have no armor against its assault. And he knew that the rest of his life would be a struggle to hold grief at bay by keeping Takeshi alive.

3

The following day, Mori Yuta’s body was washed up on the opposite bank, a little downstream from his family home. Whatever their own grief might have been, his parents hid it in their shame and remorse for nearly drowning the son of the lord of the clan. Yuta was twelve, almost a man. He should not have been indulging in childish games, causing danger to an eight-year-old. After the funeral, his father sought and was granted an audience with Lord Otori.

Shigemori and his younger brothers were seated in the main hall of the Otori residence, which lay within the castle grounds, surrounded by gardens leading down to the great stone walls that rose directly from the sea. The senior retainers were also in the room: Endo Chikara, Miyoshi Satoru, and Irie Masahide. The sound of the waves and the smell of salt washed through the open doors. As summer progressed, every day became warmer and more humid, but here the air was cooled by the sea, as well as by the dense forest that covered the small hill behind the castle. At the top of the hill was a shrine to the sea god where a huge bronze-cast bell hung, said to have been made by a giant; it was struck if foreign ships were sighted or a whale stranded on the beach.

The three Otori lords were dressed in formal robes and wore small black hats, and each held a fan in his hand. Shigeru knelt to one side. He also wore formal robes-not the ones that had been mud- and water-stained; they had been carefully washed and then presented to the small shrine near his mother’s house where the river god was worshipped, along with many other gifts of rice wine and silver, in the hope that the spirit would be placated. Many in the town murmured that the god was offended by the building of the new bridge and had seized the boys in anger. It was a warning: the construction should be stopped at once. The stonemason was spat upon, and threats were made to his family. But Lord Shigemori had set his heart on the bridge and would not be dissuaded from it. The footings for the arches were in place and the first arch was already rising from them.