“Even in stories told by children, we hear the people’s longing for justice,” Naomi said.

WHEN THEY HAD lain together the previous night, their desire had been overwhelming and uncontrollable. This night they were both more thoughtful, more aware of the risks they were taking, the madness of their actions.

“I am afraid we will make a child,” Shigeru confessed. “Not that I do not long for it…”

“I do not believe I will conceive this week,” Naomi replied. “But if I do-” She broke off, unable to voice her intention, but he knew what she meant and was filled with sorrow and anger.

After a few moments, she said, “I long to give you children. I thought of that when you spoke of Fumio. You must want so much to have a son. It may never be possible for us to marry. I feel all we can do is steal these moments, but they will be very few, with long stretches of time between them, and always so dangerous. It claws at my heart to say it, but you should marry again so that you can have children.”

“I will marry no one but you,” he said, and then, realizing the depth of his love for her, “I will lie with no one but you for the rest of my life.”

“One day you will be my husband,” she whispered. “And I will bring your children into life.”

They held each other for a long time, and when they made love, it was with a hesitant tenderness, as though they were made of some fragile material that one rough move might shatter.

SHIGERU SWAM AGAIN the following day. Naomi watched him from the shore.

“I have never learned to swim,” she said. “I do not care for boats. I suffer from seasickness and prefer to travel by land. It must be terrible to drown-it is a death I fear.”

He could see that her mood was made somber by their imminent parting, though she tried hard to conceal it. It was a little cooler, the breeze stronger, shifting to the southwest.

“It is the wind you need to blow you home,” Naomi said. “But I hate it. I wish the northerly would blow and keep you here forever.” She sighed. “Yet I must return to the city.”

“You miss your daughter?”

“Yes, I do. She is delightful at this age. She is four years old; she talks all the time and is learning to read. I wish you could see her!”

“She will be brought up in the Maruyama way,” Shigeru said, recalling Eijiro’s daughters.

“I pray she will never have to be sent away,” Naomi said. “It is my greatest fear, that Iida will feel himself strong enough to demand hostages, and Mariko will go to Inuyama.”

It was one more constraint on them. By the end of the day they were both silent. Naomi was pale and seemed almost unwell. He intended to refrain from touching her, but she threw herself against him as soon as they were alone, as though she would annihilate her fears with passion, and he could do nothing but respond. They hardly slept, and when dawn came, Naomi rose and dressed.

“We must leave early,” she said. “It is a long journey back, and anyway I cannot bear to say good-bye to you, so I must go at once.”

“When will we be able to meet again?” he asked.

“Who knows?” She turned away as the tears began to spill from her eyes. “I will arrange something, when I can, when it is safe… I will write or send a message.”

Shigeru called for Sachie, who brought tea and a little food, and Naomi regained her self-control. There was nothing they could say to each other; nothing would make the parting easier to bear. The horses were prepared, Bunta as silent as ever, the packhorse loaded with bundles and baskets. Naomi mounted the mare, Sachie and Bunta their horses, and the three rode off. Only the young man looked back at Shigeru.

41

When he was alone, Shigeru went to the seashore and washed himself all over, plunging into the chilly water, welcoming the numbness it induced, wishing it would numb his emotions as well. Then he set himself to training vigorously, striving to regain his self-mastery, but he kept seeing her image before him, her brilliant eyes, the sheen of sweat on her skin, her slender body shaking, in passion, with tears.

At midday, one of the women from the village brought him some fresh grilled fish from the previous night’s catch. He thanked her and, after he had eaten, took the wooden bowl back to her and helped the men prepare the nets for the evening’s work. They spoke little. He told them he would warn Terada against attacking them when the ship’s captain returned that afternoon. They expressed their gratitude, but he could tell they were not convinced-and indeed, on the high seas and in these remote places, Terada could act as it suited him, according to his own laws.

The ship appeared out of the afternoon haze, tacking against the southwesterly. Shigeru waded out to it and was pulled over the side. The decks were slippery with the blood of fish that had already been gutted and packed in barrels of salt. Huge vats of seawater held the living catch. The smell was strong, stomach-turning, the fishermen tired, dirty, and keen to get home.

“Did you see any apparitions?” Fumio asked eagerly, and Shigeru told him the story of the girl betrothed to Death, and the phantoms at the wedding feast.

“And you saw them in Katte Jinja?” the boy said.

“I certainly did,” Shigeru said in the same earnest tone, aware of Terada’s eyes on him. “I shall go home and write it down. One day perhaps you will read my collection!”

Fumio groaned. “I hate reading!”

His father cuffed him. “You will read Lord Otori’s book and enjoy it!” he said.

THEY SAILED INTO Hagi harbor early the next morning. Shigeru was awake most of the night, watching the stars and the waning moon, seeing the first hint of dawn and then the vigorous sunrise as the orange sphere pushed itself above the eastern mountains and spilled its extravagant light across the surface of the sea. He thanked Terada at the dock and thought he saw again both scorn and disappointment in the older man’s expression.

He ambled back to his house, stopping to talk to several shop-keepers and merchants along the way, discussing the spring planting, examining various goods introduced from the mainland, drinking tea with one, rice wine with another.

When he came to his own gate and walked through it into the garden, greeting the guards cheerfully, he saw his mother seated inside the room that gave on to the eastern veranda. He walked around and wished her good morning.

“Lord Shigeru!” she exclaimed. “Welcome back.” She glanced rapidly at his attire and said, “You have not been out in the city like that?”

“I have been at sea for a few days,” he said. “It was very interesting, Mother. Do you know they catch bream, squid, mackerel, and sardines between Hagi and Oshima?”

“I have no interest in bream or squid,” she replied. “You stink of fish-and your clothes! Have you completely forgotten who you are?”

“I’d better go and bathe then, if I stink,” he said, refusing to be ruffled by her annoyance.

“Indeed, and take some care when you dress. You are to go to the castle. Your uncles wish to speak to you.”

“I shall tell them about the ghosts I saw,” Shigeru replied, smiling blandly. “I’m thinking of compiling a collection of ancient tales of apparitions. What a fine title that would make! Ancient Tales of Apparitions.”

The expression on his mother’s face was not unlike Terada’s: disappointment, scorn. He was perversely annoyed that she should be so easily fooled, that she should think so little of him.

He considered making his uncles wait, sending a message to say he was tired after his journey, but he did not want to antagonize them or give them reasons to curtail his activities. After bathing and having his forehead and beard plucked and shaved by Chiyo, Shigeru dressed carefully in his formal robes but chose the oldest and least ostentatious. Before he left, he placed Jato, its hilt still wrapped in its sharkskin cover, in his sash and tucked the piece of cord that Fumio had given him inside his outer garment, all the while pondering on the best way to make the short journey to the castle. He decided to leave his black stallion Kyu behind. Horses were still scarce, and he did not want to be tricked into having to present his own to either of his uncles. He had settled on walking-it seemed suitably eccentric-but his mother’s shock was so great that he relented and allowed her to send for the palanquin.