The Harsh Cry of the Heron Read online

  He bathed and dressed in a light cotton robe as if preparing for sleep, ate lightly but drank no wine, and then dismissed all the servants, telling them he was not to be disturbed till morning. Then he composed himself, cross-legged on the matting, eyes closed and first finger and thumb pressed together as if deep in meditation. He set his ears to listen to the sounds of the mansion.

  Every sound came to him—the quiet conversation of the guards at the gate, the kitchen maids chatting as they scoured the dishes and put them away, the dogs barking, music from the drinking places around the port, the endless murmur of the sea, the rustle of leaves and owls hooting from the mountain.

  He heard Zenko and Hana discuss the arrangements for the following day, but their conversation was innocuous, as though they had remembered he might be listening. In the dangerous game they had initiated, they could not risk him overhearing their strategy, especially if he was to hold their sons. A short time later they met Kono for the evening meal, but they were equally circumspect—he learned nothing more than the current hairstyles and fashions at court, Kono’s passion for poetry and drama, and the noble sports of kickball and dog hunting.

  The conversation grew more animated—like his father, Zenko loved wine. Takeo stood and changed his clothes, putting on a faded unremarkable robe such as a merchant might wear. As he went past Jun and Shin, seated as they always were outside his door, Jun raised his eyebrows; Takeo shook his head slightly. He did not want anyone to know he had left the mansion. He slipped into straw sandals at the garden steps, took on invisibility, and walked through the still-open gates. The dogs followed him with their eyes, but the guards did not notice him. Be thankful you do not guard the gates of Miyako, he said silently to the dogs. For they would shoot you full of arrows for sport.

  At a dark corner not far from the port, he stepped into the shadow invisible and stepped out in his guise of a merchant hurrying late from some assignment in the town, eager to ease his weariness with a few drinks and the company of friends. The air smelled of salt, drying fish, and seaweed on racks on the shore, grilled fish and octopus from the eating places. Lanterns lit the narrow streets and lamps glowed orange from behind the screens.

  At the dockside, wooden ships rubbed against each other, creaking in the swell of the tide, the water lapping at their hulls, their stubby masts dark against the starry sky. In the distance he could just make out the islands of the Encircled Sea; behind their jagged profile was the faint sheen of moonrise.

  A brazier burned beside the mooring ropes of one large vessel, and Takeo, using the town dialect, called to the men who squatted near it, roasting pieces of dried abalone and sharing a flask of wine. “Did Terada come on this ship?”

  “He did,” one replied. “He is eating at the Umedaya.”

  “Did you hope to see the kirin?” the other added. “Lord Terada has hidden it somewhere safe until he can show it to our ruler, Lord Otori.”

  “The kirin?” Takeo was astonished. A kirin was a mythical beast, part dragon, part horse, part lion. He thought it existed only in legends. What could Terada and Ishida have found on the mainland?

  “It’s supposed to be secret,” the first man rebuked his friend. “And you keep blabbing to everyone!”

  “But a kirin!” the other replied. “What a miracle to have one alive! And doesn’t it prove Lord Otori is just and wise above all others? First the houou, the sacred bird, returns to the Three Countries, and now a kirin has appeared!” He took another swig of wine and then offered the flask to Takeo.

  “Drink to the kirin and to Lord Otori!”

  “Well, thank you,” Takeo said, smiling. “I hope I may see it one day.”

  “Not before Lord Otori has set eyes on it!”

  He was still smiling as he walked away, the rough liquor lifting his spirits as much as the goodwill of the men.

  When I hear nothing but criticism of Lord Otori—then I will abdicate, he told himself. But not before then, not for ten emperors and their generals.

  7

  The Umedaya was an eating house between the port and the main district of the town, one of many low wooden buildings that faced onto the river, flanked by willow trees. Lanterns hung from the veranda posts and from the flat boats moored in front of it that carried bales of rice and millet and other farm produce from the inland to the sea. Many customers sat outside enjoying the change in the weather and the beauty of the moon, now above the mountain peaks, reflected in silver fragments in the flow of the tide.

  “Welcome! Welcome!” the servants called as Takeo parted the shop curtains to step inside; he mentioned Terada’s name and was shown toward a corner of the inner veranda where Fumio was busily gulping stewed fish while talking loudly. Dr. Ishida sat with him, eating as heartily, listening with a half-smile on his face. Several of Fumio’s men, some of whom Takeo recognized, were with him.

  Standing unnoticed in the shadows, Takeo studied his old friend for a few moments while the maids hurried to and fro past him with trays of food and flasks of wine. Fumio looked as robust as ever, with his plump cheeks and fine mustache, though he appeared to have a new scar across one temple. Ishida looked older, more gaunt, his skin yellowish.

  He was glad to see both of them and stepped up onto the seating area. One of the former pirates immediately leaped to his feet to bar his way, thinking him some merchant of no importance, but after a moment of baffled surprise Fumio rose, pushed his man to one side, whispering “It is Lord Otori!” and embraced Takeo.

  “Even though I was expecting you, I did not recognize you!” he exclaimed. “It is uncanny—I never get used to it.”

  Dr. Ishida was smiling broadly. “Lord Otori!” He called to the maid to bring more wine, and Takeo sat down next to Fumio, opposite the doctor, who was peering at him in the dim light.

  “Some trouble?” Ishida said after they had toasted each other.

  “A few things I need to talk about,” Takeo replied. Fumio made a gesture with his head, and his men took themselves off to another table.

  “I have a present for you,” he said to Takeo. “It will distract you from your troubles. See if you can guess what it is! It is greater than any of your heart’s desires!”

  “There is one thing I desire above all others,” Takeo replied. “And that is to see a kirin before I die.”

  “Ah. They told you. The worthless scum. I’ll tear their tongues out!”

  “They told a poor, insignificant merchant,” Takeo said, laughing. “I must forbid you to punish them. Anyway, I hardly believed them. Can it be true?”

  “Yes and no,” Ishida said. “Of course, it is not really a kirin—a kirin is a mythical creature and this is a real animal. But it is a most extraordinary beast, and more like a kirin than anything else that I have ever seen under Heaven.”

  “Ishida is in love with it,” Fumio said. “He spends hours in its company. He is worse than you and that old horse of yours, what was its name?”

  “Shun,” Takeo said. Shun had died of old age the previous year; there would never be another horse like him.

  “You can’t ride this creature, but maybe it will replace Shun in your affections,” Fumio said.

  “I long to see it. Where is it now?”

  “In the temple, Daifukuji; they have found a quiet garden for it, with a high wall. We will show you tomorrow. Now you have ruined our surprise, you may as well tell us your troubles.”

  Fumio poured more wine.

  “What do you know about the Emperor’s new general?” Takeo said.

  “If you had asked me a week ago, I would have said, ‘Nothing,’ for we have been six months away, but we came back by way of Akashi, and the free city is abuzz with talk of him. His name is Saga Hideki, nicknamed the Dog Catcher.”

  “The Dog Catcher?”

  “He loves dog hunting, and excels at it, they say. He is a master of the horse and bow, and a brilliant strategist. He dominates the Eastern Isles, has the ambition, they say, of conquering all the Eight
Islands, and recently received the Emperor’s appointment to fight His Divine Majesty’s battles and destroy his enemies in order to achieve that end.”

  “It seems I am among his enemies,” Takeo said. “Lord Fujiwara’s son, Kono, called on me today to inform me. Apparently the Emperor will be sending me a request to abdicate, and if I refuse, he will send his Dog Catcher against me.”

  Ishida’s face had paled at the mention of Fujiwara’s name. “Troubles indeed,” he muttered.

  “That was not mentioned in Akashi,” Fumio said. “It has not yet been made public.”

  “Was there any indication that firearms are being traded in Akashi?”

  “No, on the contrary; several merchants approached me, asking about weapons and niter, hoping to get around the Otori prohibition. I must warn you, they were offering huge sums of money. If the Emperor’s general is preparing war against you, he is probably attempting to buy arms—for that money, sooner or later someone is going to supply them.”

  “I’m afraid they are already on their way,” Takeo said, and told Fumio about his suspicions of Zenko.

  “They have less than a day’s start,” Fumio said, draining his glass and getting to his feet. “We can intercept them. I wanted to see your face when I showed you the kirin, but Ishida will tell me about it. Keep Lord Kono in the West until I return. While they cannot match the firearm, they will not provoke you into battle. But once they have it—they have more resources, iron ore and smiths, and more men than we do. The wind is westerly—we’ll catch the tide if we leave now.” He called to the men, and they also rose, cramming the last of the food into their mouths, draining the wine cups, bidding the maids a reluctant farewell. Takeo gave them the name of the boat.

  Fumio departed so swiftly they hardly had time to say good-bye.

  Takeo was left with Ishida. “Fumio has not changed,” he said, amused by his friend’s immediate action.

  “He is always the same,” Ishida replied. “Like a whirlwind, never still.” The doctor poured more wine and drank deeply. “He is a stimulating traveling companion, but exhausting.”

  They spoke of the voyage, and Takeo gave news of his family, in whom Ishida always took the keenest interest, for he had been married for fifteen years to Muto Shizuka.

  “Your pain has increased?” the doctor said. “It shows in your face.”

  “Yes, the damp weather aggravates it—sometimes I feel there must be a residue of poison that flares up. Often the wound seems inflamed beneath the scar. It makes my whole body ache.”

  “I will look at it, in private,” Ishida said.

  “Can you come back with me now?”

  “I have quite a supply of root from Shin, and a new soporific made from poppies. Luckily, I decided to bring them with me,” Ishida remarked, taking up a cloth bundle and a small wooden chest. “I had intended to leave these on the ship. They would be halfway to Akashi by now and little use to you.”

  A bleak tone had come into Ishida’s voice. Takeo thought he might say more, but after a moment of uncomfortable silence the doctor seemed to regain his self-control; he gathered up his things and said cheerfully, “And then I must go and check on the kirin. I will sleep at Daifukuji tonight. The kirin is used to me and even attached to me—I do not want it to fret.”

  Takeo had been aware for a little while of a discordant sound from within the eating house, a man speaking in the foreigners’ language and a woman’s voice translating. The woman’s voice interested him, for the accent held a tone of the East in it, though she spoke in a local dialect, and there was something about her intonation that was familiar to him.

  As they went through the inside room he recognized the foreigner, the one called Don João. He was sure he had never seen the woman kneeling beside him, yet there was something…

  While he was pondering who she might be, the man spotted Ishida and called out to him. Ishida was a great favorite with the foreigners and spent many hours in their company, exchanging medical knowledge, information on treatment and herbs, and comparing their customs and language.

  Don João had met Takeo several times, but always in formal circumstances, and he did not appear to recognize him now. The foreigner was delighted to see the doctor and would have liked him to sit and chat, but Ishida pleaded the needs of a patient. The woman, who might have been twenty-five or so years old, glanced at Takeo, but he kept his face turned away from her. She translated Ishida’s words—she seemed quite fluent in the foreign tongue—and turned her gaze toward Takeo again; she seemed to be studying him closely, as though she thought she might know him in the same way as he thought he knew her.

  She raised her hands to her mouth; the sleeve fell back and revealed the skin of her forearm, smooth and dark, so like his own, so like his mother’s.

  The shock was overwhelming, stripping his self-control, turning him into a scared, persecuted boy. The woman gasped and said, “Tomasu?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. She was shaking with emotion. He remembered a little girl crying in the same way over a dead bird, a lost toy. He had imagined her lifeless over the years, lying next to her dead mother and her older sister—she had their calm, broad features, and she had his skin. He spoke her name aloud for the first time in over sixteen years:

  “Madaren!”

  It drove everything else from his mind—the threat from the East, Fumio’s mission to retrieve the smuggled firearms, Kono, even the pain, even the kirin. He could only stare at the sister he had imagined dead; his life seemed to melt and fade away. All that existed in his memory was his childhood, his family.

  Ishida said, “Lord, are you all right? You are unwell.” He said quickly to Madaren, “Tell Don João I will meet him tomorrow. Send word to me at Daifukuji.”

  “I will come there tomorrow,” she said, her eyes fixed on Takeo’s face.

  He regained his self-control and said, “We cannot speak now. I will come to Daifukuji; wait for me there.”

  “May he bless and keep you,” she said, using the prayer the Hidden use in parting. Even though it was at his command that the Hidden were now free to worship openly, it still shocked him to see revealed what had once been secret, just as the cross Don João wore on his breast seemed a flagrant display.

  “You are more unwell than I thought!” Ishida exclaimed when they were outside. “Shall I send for a palanquin?”

  “No, of course not!” Takeo breathed in deeply. “It was just the closeness of the air. And drinking too much wine, too fast.”

  “And you received some terrible shock. Did you know that woman?”

  “From a long time ago. I did not know she translated for the foreigners.”

  “I’ve seen her before, but not recently—I have been away for months.” The town was growing quieter, the lights being extinguished one by one, the last shutter being closed. As they crossed the wooden bridge outside the Umedaya and took one of the narrow streets that led toward the mansion, Ishida remarked, “She did not recognize you as Lord Otori, but as someone else.”

  “As I said, I knew her a long time ago, before I became Otori.”

  Takeo was still half-stunned by the meeting—and more than half-inclined to doubt what he had seen. How could it be her? How could she have survived the massacre in which his family had been destroyed and his village burned? Doubtless she was not only an interpreter—he had seen that in Don João’s hands and eyes. The foreigners frequented brothels like any other men, but the women were mostly reluctant to sleep with them—only the lowest-class prostitutes went with them. His skin crawled as he thought of what her life must have been.

  Yet she had called him by name. And he had recognized her.

  At the last house before the mansion gates, Takeo drew Ishida into the shadows. “Wait here for a short while. I must go inside unobserved. I will send word to the guards to admit you.”

  The gates were already closed, but he tucked the long hem of his robe up into his sash and scaled the wall lightly enough, though t
he jolt of landing on the far side sent the pain throbbing again. Taking on invisibility, he slipped through the silent garden, past Jun and Shin to his room. He changed back into his night robes and called for lamps and tea, sending Jun to tell the guards to let Ishida in.

  The doctor arrived—they exchanged delighted greetings, as if they had not seen each other for six months. The maid poured tea and brought more hot water, then Takeo dismissed her. He drew off the silk glove that covered the crippled hand and Ishida moved the lamp closer so he could see. He pressed the scar tissue gently with the tips of his fingers and flexed the remaining digits. The growth of scar tissue had clawed the hand slightly.

  “Can you still write with this hand?”

  “After a fashion. I support it with the left.” He showed Ishida. “I believe I could still fight with the sword, but I have not had reason to for many years.”

  “It does seem inflamed,” Ishida said finally. “I will try the needles tomorrow, to open up the meridians. In the meantime, this will help you sleep.”

  As he prepared the tea, he said in a low voice, “I often did this for your wife. I am afraid to meet Kono; just the mention of his father’s name, the knowledge that the son lies somewhere in this mansion, has stirred up many memories. I wonder if he has grown like his father.”

  “I never laid eyes on Fujiwara.”

  “You were fortunate. I did his bidding, obeying him in everything, for most of my life. I knew he was a cruel man, but he always treated me with kindness, encouraged me in my studies and my travels, allowed me access to his great collections of books and other treasures. I turned my eyes away from his darker pleasures. I never believed his cruelty would fall on me.”

  He stopped abruptly and poured the boiling water onto the dried herbs. A faint smell of summer grass rose from them, fragrant and soothing.

  “My wife has told me a little of that time,” Takeo said quietly.