“I think you have taught me all you can,” Takeshi said without moving. “I have promised to meet someone shortly.”

“You can still learn something from me, I expect,” Shigeru replied mildly. “And your first promise was to me, your first obligation to your training.”

“What am I training for, since we do not fight?” Takeshi exclaimed. “Why don’t you teach farmers’ sons how to use the hoe?”

Shigeru was aware of Kahei trying to control his reaction, and of the other young men: their shock, followed by their alert interest in how Shigeru would respond. His own immediate reaction was fury that Takeshi should challenge him in public: all the anxieties and irritations that his brother had caused him for months came boiling to the surface. He seized the pole from Kahei and thrust it toward Takeshi. “Take it and fight, or I’ll knock you out.”

Takeshi was barely ready before Shigeru’s pole caught him on the right shoulder. Shigeru hit him harder than he had ever done before, unable to suppress the thought: That’ll teach him a lesson. His brother responded with equal rage and came back at him ferociously, surprising Shigeru with the intensity of the attack. He sidestepped and parried the thrusts but each blow came more swiftly and powerfully than the last, and every response he made only increased Takeshi’s fury.

He did not believe his brother was seriously trying to harm him until one blow got past his guard; he ducked in time but knew that Takeshi had been aiming with all his power at his temple, which the pole would have cracked like a piece of pottery. His own rage ignited in response: his next thrust caught Takeshi hard in the breastbone, winding him; as he bent forward, choking for air, Shigeru’s pole returned to catch him in the side of the neck. Takeshi fell to his knees; the pole dropped from his hands.

“I concede,” he said, his voice muffled by rage.

“When you can get the better of me, then you may choose whether to continue your training or not,” Shigeru replied. “Until that time, you obey me.” But he was thinking, We cannot go on like this; we will end up killing each other.

Kahei offered to help Takeshi home. The brothers did not speak for several days; their mother was distraught at Takeshi’s bruises and displeased with Shigeru for causing them. Takeshi had improved in character while he had lived apart from his mother, but now that they were both in the same house, her indulgence of the younger son and her disapproval of the elder undermined Shigeru’s authority and encouraged Takeshi’s resentment.

Shigeru could see no solution other than to continue to insist on imposing his will, but he knew his disguise as the farmer had lost him the respect of his mother and his brother.

A few days after the fight that nearly got out of hand, Kahei’s father Miyoshi Satoru came to visit, ostensibly to ask if Ichiro might condescend to take Kahei and Gemba as pupils. This led indirectly and with great delicacy to the suggestion that Takeshi might like to spend more time with Satoru’s sons, might even like to reside with them for a few weeks.

Shigeru was torn between gratitude and a fear that Satoru thought he was failing in his efforts to raise his brother, that Takeshi was out of control and everyone in Hagi knew it. Satoru deftly managed to give the impression that his older son, Kahei, would benefit greatly both from Ichiro’s teaching and from the association with Takeshi. This made it possible for Shigeru to agree without any loss of face. Nevertheless, he was reluctant to pass on his personal problems to another family; he thanked Lord Miyoshi for the offer and promised to consider it and discuss it with his mother and Ichiro.

He was sitting in Ichiro’s room that night, talking with the old man when his glance fell on what seemed to be a new addition to the boxes of scrolls that lined the walls. Somewhat to his surprise, Ichiro was all in favor of Lord Miyoshi’s suggestion; his mother had argued against it, but more out of habit than through any serious objection.

“What is in this box?” Shigeru inquired.

“It was delivered a few days ago. I forgot to tell you. There’s a letter inside, on the top. It’s from Otori Eijiro’s widow. The estate has been ceded to Tsuwano. She and her daughters are returning to the West. These are the last writings of her husband before he died: she wanted you to have them.”

“Well, I’ll look through them.” It seemed a good distraction from the decision he had to make about Takeshi, though it brought its own griefs as he remembered Eijiro’s family and the happiness of their lives. He found himself recalling the week he had spent there and the deep impression it had made on him. It is the influence of the Maruyama, Eijiro had said.

Eijiro’s wife was from the Sugita family. Lady Maruyama’s companion, Sachie, was her sister. He was thinking about Maruyama Naomi as he took out the letter and unrolled the scroll. The widow’s handwriting was strong and bold, the language restrained; he felt he could see her courage and her grief in both. Laying the letter to one side, he took out the next scroll. When he opened it, a smaller piece of paper was enclosed within it. The handwriting was different, neither Eijiro’s nor his wife’s-more fluid and graceful-and the piece was not a letter; nor was it records of farming.

It was the night of the full moon of the ninth month, and the screens were all wide open, revealing the garden bathed in light. The air was still, all the leaves motionless, the shadows dark and long. In the closest shrub, an orb spider was weaving a web: gold and silver glinted in the moonlight together. He read:

Was it a message to him, or had it been included in the papers by mistake? Lady Maruyama had said she would write to him by this very means. She did not write of alliances or intrigues; she did not even address him by name. There was nothing that might link them under any suspicious scrutiny; she wrote of grief for a lost child, yet the image she used pierced him as if he had received a sudden cut to the flesh of his heart. She must have had news of his loss; she had suffered in the same way; he had lost his wife and daughter; she, her husband and son. She might have written differently, with words of commiseration, pledges of support, but these brief lines made him believe more than anything that he could trust her and that she would be part of the pattern of his future. He thought of the game of Go: a player might seem to be completely surrounded, powerless and defeated, but an unexpected move could break the tightening ring and reverse the situation. Such a move had suddenly come to him: for the first time since the battle, his patient persistence, dogged and gray, was colored by the faintest tinge of hope.

He folded the poem and tucked it inside the breast of his robe, then turned his attention to Eijiro’s last writings, marveling at how the energetic, intelligent voice still spoke out to him. Eijiro had been experimenting with different strains of sesame seed, used for oil for cooking and lighting. Shigeru soon became absorbed in the subject and thought he might try some of these in his own fields: he would write to Eijiro’s widow to ensure that seeds were retained and sent to him before she left for the West and he would set aside some land to sow a crop in the spring, making sure the aspect, irrigation, and fertilizing followed Eijiro’s advice. Every time I light a lamp with the oil, I’ll think of him-he could have no more fitting memorial.

The following day Takeshi came to him and apologized.

“Kahei told me I should,” he said awkwardly. “He explained to me how much I was in the wrong.”