The Harsh Cry of the Heron Read online

  Hiroshi and Zenko disliked each other. Takeo knew Hiroshi had harbored a boyish desire to marry Hana himself, had formed an illusory picture of her based on his devotion to Kaede, and had been disappointed when the Arai marriage was arranged, though he never spoke of it. But the two young men had never liked each other since they first met so many years ago in the turbulent period of civil war. Hiroshi and Taku, Zenko’s younger brother, were close friends despite their differences, far closer than the two Arai brothers, who had grown cold to each other over the years, though again they never spoke of it, masking the distance between them with a feigned and mutually beneficial conviviality usually fueled by wine.

  “I have not had the opportunity to speak to Sugita,” Zenko admitted.

  “Well, we will discuss it with him. We will all meet in Maruyama in the tenth month and review military requirements in the West then.”

  “We face threats from the barbarians,” Zenko said. “The West lies open to them—the Seishuu have never had to face attack from the sea before. We are totally unprepared.”

  “The foreigners seek trade above all,” Takeo replied. “They are far from home; their vessels are small. They learned their lesson in the attack on Mijima; they will deal with us through diplomacy now. Our best defense against them is to trade peacefully with them.”

  “Yet they boast when they talk of their king’s great armies,” Hana said. “One hundred thousand men at arms. Fifty thousand horses. One of their horses is bigger than two of ours, they say, and all their foot soldiers carry firearms.”

  “These are, as you say, boasts,” Takeo observed. “I daresay Terada Fumio makes similar claims about our superiority in the islands of the South and ports of Tenjiku and Shin.” He saw Zenko’s expression darken at the mention of Fumio’s name, and recalled that it had been Fumio who had killed Zenko’s father, shooting him in the chest at the moment the earth shook and Arai’s army was destroyed. He sighed inwardly, wondering if it was ever possible to wipe the desire for revenge from a man’s heart, knowing that Fumio may have held the weapon but Zenko put the blame on him.

  Zenko said, “There, too, the barbarians use trade as an excuse to get a foothold in a country. Then they weaken it from within with their religion, and attack from without with superior weapons. They will turn us all into their slaves.”

  Zenko could be right, Takeo thought. The foreigners were mainly confined to Hofu, and Zenko saw more of them than any other of his warriors. Which in itself was dangerous—even though he called them barbarians, Zenko was impressed by their weapons and ships. If they should join together in the West…

  “You know I respect your opinions on these matters,” he replied. “We will increase our surveillance of the foreigners. If there is any need to conscript more men, I will inform you. And niter must only be bought directly by the clan.”

  He gazed at Zenko as the younger man bowed reluctantly, a line of color at his neck the only sign of his resentment at the rebuke. Takeo was thinking of the time when he had held Zenko across his horse’s neck, the knife at his throat. If he had used it then, he would have no doubt saved himself many troubles. But Zenko had been a child of twelve years; Takeo had never killed a child and prayed he never would. Zenko is part of my fate, he thought. I must handle him carefully. What more can I do to flatter him and tame him?

  Hana spoke in her gentle honeyed voice. “We would do nothing without consulting Lord Otori. We have only the interests of you and your family and the welfare of the Three Countries at heart. Your family are all well, I trust? My oldest sister, your beautiful daughters?”

  “I thank you; they are all well.”

  “It is a great sorrow to me to have no daughters,” Hana went on, her eyes demurely lowered. “We have only sons, as Lord Otori knows.”

  Where is she going with this? Takeo wondered.

  Zenko had less subtlety than his wife and spoke more bluntly.

  “Lord Otori must long for a son.”

  Ah! Takeo thought, and said, “Since a third of our country is already inherited through the female line, it does not present a problem to me. Our oldest daughter will be the eventual ruler of the Three Countries.”

  “But you should know the joy of having boys in the household,” Hana exclaimed. “Let us give you one of ours.”

  “We would like you to adopt one of our sons,” Zenko said, direct and affable.

  “It would honor us and bring us joy beyond words,” Hana murmured.

  “You are extremely generous and thoughtful,” Takeo replied. The truth was he did not want sons. He was relieved Kaede had had no more children and hoped she would not conceive again. The prophecy that he would die at the hands of his own child did not frighten him, but it saddened him deeply. He prayed at that moment, as he often did, that his death would be like that of Shigeru, not like that of the other Otori lord, Masahiro, whose throat had been cut with a fishing knife by his illegitimate son; and that he would be spared until his work was finished and his daughter old enough to rule his country. He wondered what truly lay behind Zenko and Hana’s offer. He did not want to insult them by rejecting it outright. Indeed, it had much to recommend it. It would be entirely appropriate to adopt his wife’s nephew; he could even perhaps betroth the child to one of his daughters one day.

  “Please do us the honor of receiving our two oldest boys,” Hana said, and when he nodded in assent, she rose and moved toward the door, with her gliding walk so like Kaede’s. She returned with the children—they were aged eight and six, dressed in formal robes, silenced by the solemnity of the gathering. They both wore their hair long in front.

  “The oldest is Sunaomi, the younger Chikara,” Hana said as the boys bowed to the ground before their uncle.

  “Yes, I remember,” Takeo said. He had not seen them for at least three years, and had never seen Hana’s youngest child, born the previous year and presumably now in the care of his nurse. They were fine-looking children—the older one resembled the Shirakawa sisters, with the same long limbs and slender bone structure. The younger one was rounder and stockier, more like his father. He wondered if either of them had inherited any of the Muto Tribe skills from their grandmother, Shizuka. He would ask Taku or Shizuka. It would be pleasant, he mused, for Shizuka, too, to have a grandson to bring up along with his own daughters, to whom she was like a second mother, both companion and teacher.

  “Sit up, boys,” he said. “Let your uncle see your faces.”

  He was taken with the older boy, who looked so like Kaede. He was only seven years younger than Shigeko, five years younger than Maya and Miki—not an impossible age difference in marriage. He questioned them about their studies, their progress with sword and bow, their ponies, and was pleased with the intelligence and clarity of their replies. Whatever their parents’ secret ambitions and hidden motives might be, the boys had been well brought up.

  “You are very generous,” he said again. “I will discuss it with my wife.”

  “The children will join us for the evening meal,” Hana said. “You may get to know them better then. Of course, though he is nothing out of the ordinary, Sunaomi is already a great favorite with my older sister.”

  Takeo remembered now that he had heard Kaede praise the boy for his intelligence and quickness. He knew that she envied Hana and regretted never having a son. Adopting her nephew might be a compensation, but if Sunaomi became his son…

  He put this line of thought from him. He must follow what seemed the best policy—he must not allow himself to be influenced by a prophecy that might never come true.

  Hana left with the children, and Zenko said, “I can only repeat what an honor it would be if you were to adopt Sunaomi—or Chikara—you must choose.”

  “We will discuss it again in the tenth month.”

  “May I make one more request?”

  When Takeo nodded, Zenko went on. “I don’t want to cause offense by bringing up the past, but—you remember Lord Fujiwara?”

  “O
f course,” Takeo replied, holding down his surprise and anger. Lord Fujiwara was the nobleman who had abducted his wife, and had brought about his heaviest defeat. He had died in the great earthquake, but Takeo had never forgiven him, hating even to hear his name spoken. Kaede had sworn to him that this spurious husband had never lain with her, yet there had been some strange bond between them. Fujiwara had intrigued and flattered her; she had entered into a pact with him and had told him the most intimate secrets of Takeo’s love for her. He had supported her household with money and food and given her many gifts. He had married her with the permission of the Emperor himself. Fujiwara had tried to take Kaede into death with him—she had narrowly escaped being burned alive when her hair burst into flames, causing the scars, the loss of her beauty.

  “His son is in Hofu and seeks an audience with you.”

  Takeo said nothing, reluctant to admit that he did not know it.

  “He goes under his mother’s name, Kono. He came by boat a few days ago, hoping to meet you. We have been in correspondence over his father’s estate. My father was, as you know, on very good terms with his father—forgive me for reminding you of those unpleasant times—and Lord Kono approached me about matters of rent and taxes.”

  “I was under the impression the estate had been joined to Shirakawa.”

  “But legally Shirakawa was also Lord Fujiwara’s, after his marriage, and so is now his son’s. For Shirakawa is male-inherited. If it is not Kono’s to claim, it should pass to the next male heir.”

  “Your oldest son, Sunaomi,” Takeo said.

  Zenko bowed his head without speaking.

  “It is sixteen years since his father’s death. Why does he suddenly appear now?” Takeo questioned.

  “Time passes swiftly in the capital,” Zenko said. “In the divine presence of the Emperor.”

  Or perhaps some scheming person, you or your wife—almost certainly your wife—seeing how Kono could be used to put more pressure on me, wrote to him, Takeo thought, concealing his fury.

  The rain strengthened on the roof, and the smell of wet earth floated in from the garden.

  “He may come and see me tomorrow,” he said finally.

  “Yes. It is a wise decision,” Zenko replied. “It is too wet to travel, anyway.”

  THIS MEETING ADDED to Takeo’s unease, reminding him of how closely the Arai needed to be watched; how easily their ambitions could lead the Three Countries back into civil war. The evening passed pleasantly enough—he drank sufficient wine to mask the pain temporarily, and the boys were lively and entertaining. They had recently met two of the foreigners in the same room and were full of excitement about the encounter—how Sunaomi had spoken to them in their own language, which he had been studying with his mother; how they had looked like goblins with their long noses and bushy beards, one red-haired, the other black, but Chikara had not been afraid at all. They called to the servants to bring in one of the chairs that had been fashioned for the foreigners from an exotic wood, teak, transported from the great trading port known as Fragrant Harbor in the holds of the Terada treasure ships that also brought jasper bowls, lapis lazuli, tiger skins, ivory, and jade to the cities of the Three Countries.

  “So uncomfortable,” Sunaomi said, demonstrating.

  “Like the Emperor’s throne, though,” Hana said, laughing.

  “But they did not eat with their hands!” Chikara said, disappointed. “I wanted to see that.”

  “They are learning good manners from our people,” Hana told him. “They are making great efforts, just as Lord João makes efforts to learn our language.”

  Takeo could not prevent a slight shiver at the sound of the name, so like that of the outcaste Jo-An, whose death had been the most regretted act of his life, whose words and appearance often came to him in dreams. The foreigners held beliefs similar to the Hidden and prayed to the Secret God, yet they did so openly, often causing great distress and embarrassment to others. They displayed the secret sign, the cross, on prayer beads worn around their necks on the breast of their strange uncomfortable-looking clothes. Even on the hottest days they wore tight-fitting garments with high collars and boots, and they had an unnatural horror of bathing.

  The persecution of the Hidden was supposedly a thing of the past, though it was impossible to remove people’s prejudices by law. Jo-An himself had become something of a deity, sometimes confused with one or other of the manifestations of the Enlightened One—his help was invoked in matters of conscription and other work-related levies and duties; he was worshipped by the very poor, the destitute, and the homeless in a way that would horrify him as heresy. Few knew who he had been or remembered the details of his life, but his name had become attached to the laws that governed taxation and conscription. No landowner was permitted to take more than thirty parts in a hundred from any resource, be it rice, beans, or oil, and military service was not demanded of farmers’ sons, though a certain amount of public work was, to drain land, build dikes and bridges, and excavate canals. Mining was also a source of conscription; the work was so hard and dangerous few volunteered for it; but all forms of conscription were rotated through districts and age groups so no one bore an unfair burden, and various levels of compensation were set in place for death or accident. These were known as the Jo-An Laws.

  The foreigners were eager to talk about their religion, and Takeo had cautiously arranged meetings with Makoto and other religious leaders, but these had ended in the usual way, with both sides convinced of the truth of their own position, wondering privately how anyone could believe the nonsense their opponents did. The beliefs of the foreigners, Takeo thought, came from the same source as those of the Hidden but had accrued centuries of superstition and distortion. He himself had been raised in the tradition of the Hidden but had abandoned all the teachings of his childhood and viewed all religions with a certain amount of suspicion and skepticism, particularly the foreigners’ brand, for it seemed to him to be linked with their greed for wealth, status, and power.

  The one belief that occupied his thoughts greatly—that it is forbidden to kill—did not appear to be shared by them, as they came fully armed with long thin swords, daggers, cutlasses, and of course firearms, though they took pains to conceal these just as the Otori hid the fact that they already possessed them. Takeo had been taught as a child that it was a sin to take life, even to defend yourself, yet now he ruled in a land of warriors, the legitimacy of his rule based on conquest in battle and control by force. He had lost count of how many he himself had killed or had had executed. The Three Countries were at peace now—the terrible slaughter of the years of war lay far in the past. Takeo and Kaede held in their own hands all resources for the violence necessary for defense or punishment of criminals—they held their warriors in check and gave men outlets for ambition and aggression. And many warriors now followed the lead of Makoto, putting aside their bows and their swords, taking the vow never to kill again.

  One day I will do the same, Takeo thought. But not yet. Not yet.

  He drew his attention back to the gathering, seeing Zenko and Hana at their best, with their children, and made a silent vow to solve whatever problems arose without bloodshed.

  6

  The pain returned in the early hours of the morning, waking him with its insistency. He called to the maid to bring tea, the warmth from the bowl momentarily soothing his crippled hand. It was still raining, the air inside the residence stifling and humid. Sleep was impossible. He sent the maid to wake his scribe and the appropriate official and bring lamps, and when the men came sat outside on the veranda with them and examined such records of Shirakawa and Fujiwara as existed in the center of the administrative district and port, discussing details and questioning discrepancies until the sky began to pale and the first tentative birdsong sounded from the garden. He had always had a good memory, strongly visual and retentive; with training over the years it had become prodigious. Since the fight with Kotaro, when he lost two fingers from his right h
and, he dictated much to scribes, and this also increased the power of memory. And like his adopted father, Shigeru, he had come to love and respect records—the way everything could be noted and retained; the way they supported and corrected memory.

  This particular young man accompanied him most of the time lately; one of the many boys orphaned by the earthquake, he had found refuge at Terayama and had been educated there; his quick intelligence and skill with the brush had been recognized, as well as his diligence—he was one of those who study by the light of fireflies and the reflection of snow, as the saying goes—and he had eventually been chosen by Makoto to go to Hagi and join Lord Otori’s household.

  He was of a silent nature, and did not care for alcohol, seeming on the surface to have rather a dull personality, yet he possessed a fine vein of sarcastic wit when alone with Takeo, was not impressed by anyone or anything, treated everyone with the same considerate deference, noting all their weaknesses and vanities with clarity and a certain detached compassion. His name was Minoru, which amused Takeo because he had carried that name for a brief time in what seemed now like another life.

  His writing was swift and beautiful.

  Both estates had been severely damaged by the earthquake, the country mansions destroyed by fire. Shirakawa had been rebuilt and his other sister-in-law, Ai, frequently visited for long periods of the year with her daughters. Her husband, Sonoda Mitsuru occasionally accompanied her, but his duties kept him mostly in Inuyama. Ai was practical and hardworking and had profited from her sister’s example. Shirakawa had recovered from the mismanagement and neglect of their father and was flourishing, giving high returns in rice, mulberries, persimmons, silk, and paper. Fujiwara’s estate had been administered by Shirakawa; fundamentally it was richer and it was also now showing a fair profit. Takeo felt a certain reluctance to hand it back to Fujiwara’s son, even if he was the legal owner. As it was now, its profitability fed back into the economy of the Three Countries. He suspected Kono would want to take what he could, exploit the land for all it was worth, and spend the results in the capital.