“He is a good friend to you,” Shigeru replied, and told his brother about Kahei’s father’s suggestion. “Let’s walk outside for a while.” Once they were in the garden, beyond earshot of anyone, Shigeru explained a little of his continued pretence, repeated his intentions and the need to keep them secret; Takeshi promised to be patient. They agreed Takeshi should live with the Miyoshi family for a while, and the young man seemed to welcome it as a new challenge.
“I know you think I am running wild,” he said quietly to Shigeru. “Some of it is real but like you I also play a role that is not my true self. I can’t pretend I don’t enjoy a lot of it, though! It must be more fun than being a farmer!”
Later that afternoon Shigeru was walking through the fields, thinking partly of the sesame crop and partly with some relief of Takeshi, when a man stepped out from the shade of a small group of peach trees and spoke his name.
He recognized the voice at once-his retainer, the warrior Harada-and turned toward him with joy, for he had not seen him since before the battle and had believed him to be dead. Yet the man who dropped to his knees before him was almost unrecognizable. His head and face were covered in a scarf of some deep yellow-brown material, and he wore the short jerkin of a laborer. His legs and feet were bare. Shigeru momentarily thought he had been mistaken, but the man raised his head and spoke without getting up. “Lord Otori. It is I, Harada.”
“I had heard nothing of you and assumed you were dead,” Shigeru exclaimed. “It’s a great joy to see you, but you are so changed I hardly knew you.”
“Indeed my whole life has changed.” Harada spoke quietly and humbly, like a supplicant or a beggar. “I am glad to find you alive. I was afraid you would have had to give in to the pressure to take your own life.”
“Many people think I should have joined the dead,” Shigeru said. “But I have my reasons for remaining with the living. You must come to my house. We’ll eat together, and I’ll tell you them. Where have you been all this time, and why, may I ask, the change in your appearance and dress?”
He could see now that Harada carried no sword, nor, apparently, any other weapon.
“It is better that I don’t come to your house. I don’t want it to be known that I am in Hagi. Indeed, I can be of greater service to you if I remain unrecognized. Is there somewhere we can talk?” He dropped his voice further. “I have a message for you.”
“There is a small shrine at the top of the valley. It’s deserted except during days of festival. I am walking that way.”
“I will meet you there.” Harada lowered his head to the ground, remaining there while Shigeru walked on.
Shigeru was both pleased and disturbed by the meeting, delighted that Harada was still alive, puzzled by his strange appearance and his lack of weapons. He did not go directly to the shrine but continued his careful inspection of the land, taking the time to speak to the farmers, who at that time of year were chopping the stubble and bean straw for fodder and collecting fallen leaves from the oak coppices to use as compost. Sesame needed a warm southerly aspect: in the rugged country south of the city such fields were scarce and already used for beans and vegetables. The farmers grew enough of these for their own needs, but sesame would be a product they could supply to merchants in the city or directly to warriors’ households. It would give them income, access to coins, and increased power over their lives.
Eijiro had written, as if in a direct message, Whenever sesame has been introduced, I have seen an improvement in the living conditions of the villagers and an increase in their well-being, including a greater interest in education. Several villages have even been inspired to have their young men taught to read at schools established in the temples.
A place like this might become a school, Shigeru thought as he approached the shrine. It was almost empty, apart from one young man of about fourteen years, the son of the priest from the nearest village, who kept guard. The villagers stored various farming implements there, hoes, staves, and axes, as well as firewood, stacked neatly against the southern wall to dry out before winter. The boy was sitting on the faded wooden veranda, eating from a bowl. Behind him a young girl, obviously his sister, was preparing tea on the hearth. Shigeru could imagine her walking through the forest from her home to bring her older brother his supper.
He had spoken to the boy before and now said, after greeting him, “Someone is coming here to meet me. I will wait inside.”
“My sister will bring tea,” the boy replied, ducking his head but not making any other obeisance, as if he knew of Shigeru’s desire for informality and anonymity. Ever since Kenji’s visits during the plum rains, Shigeru had noticed among the people he met in field and forest similar tiny indications of Loyalty to the Heron.
He removed his sandals and stepped into the darkened interior. The floor had been recently swept, but the air smelled musty. The shrine felt empty, as though the god slept elsewhere and returned only when awakened by the music of the festival.
He found himself wondering about the existence of the gods. Could they really be awakened or swayed by the chanting and prayers of men? This part of the forest, with its small grove, had a feeling of peace and tranquillity that was almost numinous. Did that mean it was truly a place where a god dwelled?
His musings were interrupted by the boy’s voice, followed by Harada’s. After a few moments the girl came into the shrine, carrying a tray with two wooden cups.
“Your visitor is here, sir.” She set the tray on the floor and, when Harada came in and knelt, placed a cup before him and one in front of Shigeru. Harada unwound the head covering, revealing a terrible scar that covered one side of his face. He had lost the eye, and the whole cheek seemed to have been cut away. The girl flinched at the sight of him and turned her eyes away.
“Please call me if you need more tea,” she whispered and left them.
Harada drained the cup at a gulp, causing Shigeru to wonder if he had eaten or drunk anything that day, and then reached inside his jerkin and brought out a small flat package.
“I am to give Lord Otori this to prove my message is genuine.”
Shigeru took it. The wrapping was of a silk as fine as gossamer, faded gray, very old. A faint smell of incense clung to it. He untied it and took from inside a small folded piece of paper. Inside this was a dried fern shoot, perfect in every detail yet, like the silk, faded in color.
“You have been in Maruyama?” he said quietly.
Harada said, “The message is that there is much the two parties need to discuss in person and in secret. The eastern part of the other domain needs inspection. The other person involved will be just across the border.”
He named a mountain shrine, Seisenji, and spoke of the pilgrimage that the “other person” intended to make while in the district.
“At the next full moon,” he added. “What reply should I take back?”
“I will be there,” Shigeru said. He was about to ask more: why Harada had gone to Maruyama after the battle, how he had survived the injury, when there was a disturbance outside. The girl screamed loudly and angrily, the boy was shouting; there was a rush and tramp of feet on the boards and three armed men burst into the temple.
But for the dimness of the light, Shigeru would have had no chance, but in the second it took for them to adjust their eyes and recognize him, he was on his feet and Jato was in his hand.
He did not wait to inquire what their purpose was-he had no doubt they had come expressly to kill him; they each had long swords, drawn and ready. Their faces were hidden except for their eyes, and their garments were unmarked. He was outnumbered-Harada, he knew, was unarmed-and speed was his only advantage. To kill the first two was almost like a reflex. The blade moved of its own volition in its snakelike way, in two jabbing strokes: the downward to the left that cut the first man deep in side and belly, the upward to the right that whipped back across the second’s throat. The third assailant was a step behind them and could see better. His blade came whistling down at Shigeru’s neck, but Shigeru had raised Jato in front of his face and was able to parry the blow and force the blade away.