Lord of the Darkwood Read online

  Nagatomo thought someone else watched, too. In the next few days he was aware a woman was following them. The horses knew she was there; the foal frequently turned with pricked ears and alert eyes, staring back the way they had come, until its mother called in her fretful, anxious way. The lord did not notice. He noticed nothing.

  “It’s just a coincidence,” Eisei said, when Nagatomo mentioned her. “She is on a pilgrimage or going home to her birthplace.”

  “Traveling alone?” Nagatomo replied. “And who goes into the Darkwood on a pilgrimage?”

  The great pilgrim routes all lay to the south. There were no sacred shrines or temples, and no villages, in the huge forest that spread all the way to the Northern Sea. Apart from the occasional hermit, no humans dwelled there, just wild animals, deer, bears, wolves, monkeys, and, it was said, tengu—mountain goblins—as well as huge magic snakes and other supernatural beings.

  When they stopped to eat and sleep—though Nagatomo knew the lord did neither—the woman hid herself. She lit no fire; he wondered what she ate, who she was, what she wanted from them.

  The rain had lessened to a steady drizzle, but the trees still dripped heavily and the streams and rivers spread out, drowning the path. The fake wolf jumped from rock to rock. It did not like getting wet. The horses waded through water up to their hocks. The lord rode the silver white stallion, Nyorin, and Nagatomo and Eisei doubled up on the mare, Risu, though both preferred to walk. The mare was bad tempered and ill mannered, and bucked and bit, without provocation. The foal was still nursing and the mare stopped dead whenever it demanded the teat.

  At night they removed the black silk coverings they both wore and caressed each other’s ruined face. It did not matter, then, that no one else would ever look on them with desire again or understand the terror and agony as the mask seared away skin and flesh. They were the Burnt Twins. They had found each other.

  Only the lord could wear the mask. Nagatomo knew it had been made for him in a secret ritual by a mountain sorcerer. Usually it was kept in a seven-layered brocade bag to be taken out when the lord walked between the worlds and talked to the dead. But now, on the journey into the Darkwood, he wore it day and night. The polished skull bone, the cinnabar lips and tongue, the antlers, one broken, the black-fringed eye sockets through which glistened the unending tears, transformed him into a different creature.

  “He cannot take it off,” Nagatomo whispered to Eisei.

  “Cannot or will not?”

  “It is fused to his face in some way.”

  “It must be because of what happened at Ryusonji,” Eisei said, as if he had been thinking about it over and over. “The dragon child was awakened, my former master destroyed. Finding that overwhelming power, and releasing it, came at a price.”

  “Has it burned him?” Nagatomo wondered aloud. “As it did us?”

  “He does not seem to be in pain,” Eisei replied. “Not physical pain,” he added, after a long pause.

  Mid-afternoon on the fourth or fifth day—he was beginning to lose count; every day was the same: steep gorges, flooding rivers, huge boulders, the wild cries of kites in the day and owls at night, the humid air that made them sweat profusely until just before dawn, when they shivered in their sodden clothes—Nagatomo noticed the woman was no longer following. The foal had been restless, trotting back along the track, almost as if it were trying to attract his attention, making its mother balk and neigh piercingly after it.

  The lord was far in front, Gen, the fake wolf, close to the stallion’s heels, as always. Eisei pulled on the mare’s bridle, yelling at her.

  “I’ll catch up with you,” Nagatomo said, and began to walk back the way they had come. The foal whickered at him. It was uncanny how intelligent it was; often it seemed on the point of speaking in a human voice. It trotted confidently ahead of him.

  He told himself he was being a fool, trailing after a horse. As Eisei said, it was just a coincidence; she had not been following them, and even if she had, he should be relieved she no longer was. After Ryusonji the lord was a hunted man, an outlaw. Any one of Aritomo’s retainers might be on their trail, hoping to win the Minatogura lord’s favor as well as great rewards. Maybe it was not a woman, at all, but a warrior in disguise. Maybe it was a mountain sorcerer or a witch.

  But the foal knew her. He was certain of that.

  How long was it since he had last been aware of her? He could not be sure. There was no way of knowing exactly what hour it was, with the sun hidden all day behind dense cloud. He was hungry enough for it to be almost evening, but he had been hungry since he woke, and the sparse dried meat and unripe yams had done little to fill his stomach. He walked for what seemed like a long time. The mare’s cries grew fainter, and then he could no longer hear her at all, but the foal still trotted forward, stopping at every bend to check if Nagatomo was following.

  The woman was sitting on a rock by the track, her head low, her face buried in her arms, her hands bound together in front of her. She did not move at their approach, but when the foal nuzzled her she put out her tied hands and pulled its head close to her. It allowed her to embrace it for a few moments, breathing out heavily. Then it nudged her more insistently. She raised her head slowly and looked at Nagatomo.

  Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes and lips swollen with grief. He thought he must be an alarming sight, with the black face covering and his long sword and knife, but she showed no fear. In fact, she looked as if grief had consumed her and left no room for any other emotion.

  He started to speak, but at that moment the foal squealed and leaped backward. The woman, as she fell, looked beyond Nagatomo, and he, forewarned by something in her eyes, had drawn his sword in an instant and turned to face his attackers.

  One called, “Are you Kumayama no Kazumaru, known as Shikanoko, wanted for murder and rebellion?”

  “Come and find out,” Nagatomo said. He was assessing them quickly. They had emerged from the forest while he was distracted by the woman. How long had they been following them? Was she one of them, part of the trap? The foal whinnied and horses neighed in reply. The men wore crests of three pine trees on their jackets, and held swords, but they did not appear to have bows.

  “It is he,” the second man said. “He covers his face to hide the demon mask.”

  “There should be three horses,” the first said, hesitating for one fatal moment, during which Nagatomo flew at him, flicking the man’s sword from his hand with a twist of his own and with the returning stroke slicing him through the neck. The blood spurted from the opened artery, and the foal screamed like a human.

  The second man, his eyes dark with shock, took a step back, gripping his sword. He was more prepared and, Nagatomo guessed, a better swordsman. He and Nagatomo circled each other, assessing stance, grip, weapon. Nagatomo’s sword was longer and heavier. It gave him more reach, but his opponent’s lighter blade gave its owner greater speed and flexibility. The other man was fitter, and probably better fed. Nagatomo wondered about him briefly, where he was from, what his name was, what fate had led them to encounter each other in the Darkwood, one evening in summer. Then he thought of nothing, as his enemy thrust at him and he began to fight for his life.

  It had started to rain again and the ground was becoming slippery. For a long time they exchanged blows, parrying and ducking, grunting with exertion, now and then uttering cries of hatred. Nagatomo was slowly forcing the other back toward the stream, which was spilling over its banks and flooding onto the track. The water splashed around their ankles, hiding roots and holes, and one of these was his opponent’s undoing. His foot slipped into it, he stumbled and dropped his guard.

  Nagatomo rushed forward, the point of his sword entering the man’s throat and coming out the other side, skewering him. The force of the blow threw the dying man backward into the water, his blood streaking the surface briefly, before becoming lost in the murky current.

  Nagatomo put one foot on the man’s chest, to pull ou
t his weapon. Bubbles burst from the mouth and the wound. For a moment he thought the sword was stuck, but then it came free. His opponent’s mouth under the water went slack and air no longer came from it, though blood did.

  He staggered back to the bank, gasping for breath and trembling as the tension ebbed from his limbs. Elation seized him. He was not dead; his attackers were. He saw life and death, side by side, in their raw simplicity.

  The foal came docilely to his side and sniffed at the man’s legs. They looked foolish, half-covered by water. Nagatomo wanted to laugh; he wanted to embrace the foal. He gave it a thump on its hindquarters and turned to face the woman.

  She was on her feet, her eyes fixed on him. He had hardly had time to look at her before. Now he studied her as he walked rapidly toward her, his eyes flicking over the undergrowth behind her in case there were any more men hidden there.

  He stopped a few paces from her. She was tall, only a little shorter than he was, and large boned. Her face was tanned dark by the sun, her nose flat, her mouth wide. Her hair was covered by a sedge hat tied down by a scarf, but he guessed it would be as coarse as a horse’s mane. It angered him irrationally that even a woman like this would never look on him with love or desire, and for that reason, or maybe because he suspected she had been in league with his attackers, he addressed her roughly.

  “So you thought to entice me into an ambush? Your companions are dead. Who are you and why are you following us? Answer me truthfully or I’ll send you to join them in the next world.”

  “They are no companions of mine,” she said angrily. “They wear the crest of Matsutani—that means they serve Masachika. I was following the horses, and have been for weeks, ever since they were taken from Nishimi, when Masachika captured the Princess. I waited at Ryusonji. I saw you leave and watched you bury her. Then, when I realized Masachika’s men were also on your trail, I stopped. I didn’t want to lead them to you. I thought I might distract them while you vanished beyond their reach.”

  “And did you?” he said, unable to keep contempt from his voice.

  “I think they were saving me for later,” she said, without emotion. “That’s why they tied me up.” She held out her hands; he sheathed his sword, took out his knife, and cut the cords. The foal gave a low whinny, and, when her hands were free, she embraced it, as Nagatomo had wanted to earlier.

  “Dear Tan,” she said. “I never thought I would see you again.”

  “Tan?” he questioned. They had never given it a name; it was just called the foal.

  “It’s what my lady called him because when he was born he was as dark as coal. His coat is lightening now just as Saburo said it would.” Her eyes filled with tears.

  Nagatomo felt a perverse pang of jealousy. She was weeping for someone, in a way no one ever would for him. “So why follow us in the first place? You have not answered me.”

  “My name is Ibara. I have a favor to ask of you,” she said, hesitant. “I am sorry, I know a woman like me should not speak so directly to a great warrior like yourself, but I am beyond caring about all that now.”

  One of the horses neighed from the grove.

  “We should ride on,” Nagatomo said. “Wait here while I get their horses. We will talk further as we ride.”

  The two horses were tethered beneath an oak tree. They laid back their ears at his approach and swung their haunches toward him, as though they would kick him, but the foal came barging through and its presence seemed to calm them. He untied them and led them back to the track, where he stripped the corpses of their clothes and footwear and gathered up the weapons, using one of the tethering cords to tie them into a bundle and strap them behind the saddle. Then he helped the woman mount one of the horses and, still holding its reins, leaped nimbly onto the back of the other.

  “They are good horses,” he exclaimed.

  “Masachika is a rich man now,” the woman replied. “The body of the Princess gained him many rewards.”

  “I imagine the favor you mean to ask is that we should kill him,” Nagatomo said.

  “Not exactly. I want you to teach me to fight with the sword, so I can kill him myself.”

  There was a clap of thunder and the rain began to fall more heavily.

  It was nearly dusk when they caught up with Eisei, who had taken shelter beneath a rocky overhang, where the stream emerged from between steep cliffs. It offered some protection from the direct rain, but the walls and the boulders on the ground were dank with moisture. Farther back, a kind of low cave extended beneath the cliff, where the ground at least was dry.

  “You can sleep here,” Nagatomo told the woman, ignoring Eisei’s disapproving look.

  “Surely the lord…” she began.

  “He will not sleep or seek shelter. We will take it in turn to keep watch.”

  “Where is he?” she said, gazing out at the rainy darkness.

  Nagatomo looked at Eisei, who made a small movement with his shoulders and said, “Somewhere. Not far away, I think.”

  “What is wrong with him?” she said in a hesitant voice.

  “He loved the Princess. She died,” Eisei said curtly.

  “He wants to die, too,” the woman said, partly to herself. “I know that feeling.” And then, even more quietly, so only Nagatomo heard her, “But we will see Masachika dead first.”

  * * *

  The horses were restless all night, upset by the two new stallions, who, excited by the presence of the mare, challenged Nyorin with loud calls. Bara hardly slept, and when she did, the dead talked to her in muffled voices and wrote messages she could not read. At dawn, she crawled from the cave and went toward the bushes. The man who had rescued her was asleep on his back. The other, the monk, was tending the smoky fire. Both had removed their face coverings and, after one shocked glance, she averted her gaze.

  The monk did not look at her but, as she walked past, said, “See if you can find some dry wood.”

  “I will,” she replied.

  It had stopped raining and there were patches of blue sky overhead between the pink- and orange-tinged clouds. The foal came up to her eagerly and followed her through the undergrowth. Then it went ahead, while she squatted to relieve herself, turning back, when she stood, to whicker at her. The mare responded in the distance with an anxious neigh.

  Bara walked after it. To her right, she could hear the endless babbling of the stream as it rushed over rocks and through pools. On her left, the forest rose in a steep slope, thick with trees she did not recognize, apart from maples. She had grown up in the port city of Akashi and then had worked in the house in Miyako, and the Nishimi palace, on the shore of the lake. Everything here alarmed her—the strange bird calls, the half-seen creatures that slithered away, the darkness between the trees that seemed to stretch away forever, the uncanny dappled circles where the sunlight shot through.

  The ground was still sodden, but there were plenty of dead branches on tree trunks that she could reach easily, and she was breaking these off and making a bundle in her left arm when the foal, which had been walking ahead of her, stopped dead and snorted through its nose.

  Pushing past it, she in turn halted suddenly. In the path stood the animal that she had noticed following the horses. She had thought it was a dog, but it did not look like any dog she had ever seen. Perhaps it was a wolf. Close up it did not seem quite real. Its eyes were as hard as gemstones and its movements awkward. The idea came to her that she was dreaming; she had fallen asleep, after all; she could almost feel the rocky floor of the cave beneath her. She struggled to wake. The wolf curled its painted lips, showing its carved teeth and its manlike tongue.

  “Gen!” a low voice called, as if it were an angel or a demon, making a pronouncement. Shivers ran down her backbone. “Gen!”

  The wolf seemed to sigh as it retreated. She went forward slowly, Tan’s nose in her back, pushing her on.

  She saw the head first and thought she had come upon a stag. The antlers, one broken, were lit up by the mo
rning sun. Then she realized it was a man wearing a mask. She recognized the shape; it matched exactly the pattern of the burns on the other men’s faces. It covered three quarters of his face, leaving his chin free. Through the sockets she could see his eyes, so black the iris and the pupil merged.

  He had been sitting, his legs folded beneath him, but he stood as she approached. The antlers gave him added height and he seemed, to her, like some spirit of the forest, half man, half deer. He reminded her of the dancers at the summer festivals of her childhood. In Akashi they had danced the heron dance, wearing beaked and feathered headdress. In that garb, the men had become protective, chaste, quite unlike their usual truculent, predatory selves.

  She felt no fear now, only pity, for somehow she recognized a grief as deep as her own.

  He did not speak to her but addressed the foal.

  “Who is this my lord has brought to me?”

  She recognized the sword he wore at his hip—it was the sword the Princess had left in the shrine at Nishimi, as an offering to the Lake Goddess. He also bore a rattan bow and a quiver on his back, filled with arrows fletched with black feathers. She could see traces of cobwebs spun between them. It was a long time since they had been disturbed.

  The foal nudged her, pushing her forward. She fell to her knees and said, “My name is Bara, but now I call myself Ibara. I was at Nishimi when the Princess came, with the horses and with that sword you wear.”

  A stillness came over him, like a deer after the first startle. She was afraid he was going to leap away and disappear into the forest, but then a long shudder ran through him and he sank to his knees in front of her.

  “With Jato?” he touched its hilt briefly.

  “If that is its name. The last time I saw it was before the altar in the shrine.”

  “Masachika must have taken it. It was made for me, but he had it at Matsutani. I took it back from him.”