Lian Hearn - Heaven's Net Is Wide

It did not look like a goblin with staring eyes and a long nose, but it had to be something supernatural, some mountain spirit, or a restless ghost murdered in this place and unavenged. He saw a young man, perhaps seven or eight years older than himself, with a pale, mobile face and strange opaque eyes, which held both mockery and curiosity. Apart from the eyes, there was nothing exceptional about him: he wore ordinary clothes, a short jacket over a loincloth, his legs were bare, and a head cloth hid his hair; he did not seem to be armed, but Shigeru saw the right hand move closer to the chest and guessed there was a weapon hidden there.

He himself was completely unarmed in his sudden rush from the hut. But what weapons would be effective against this spirit of the mountain who could appear and disappear at will?

He forced himself to speak. “Whoever or whatever you are, please help me. My master is injured: I went to get help and am now lost. He is in the hut near the spring, where the shrine is.”

“Your master? Who is he?”

“Matsuda Shingen, from Terayama.”

“And who are you?”

“Just one of his novices. I beg you, show me the path.”

The man smiled slightly but made no response. He took a step backward and rain cascaded over him; he vanished again.

Shigeru fought back a cry of disappointment and stepped out into the rain, determined to retrace his steps and discover where he had gone wrong. However, a little way ahead of him he saw the dark figure reappear. It turned and beckoned to him.

“Follow me,” the man called.

They went straight up the slope along a narrow fox-track, occasionally dropping to all fours to clamber over rocks or through the undergrowth. The man kept well ahead, vanishing if Shigeru came too close but always reappearing again. It was like being led by a fox-and Shigeru wondered if he had indeed been enthralled by a fox-spirit and was being led into the spirit world. The pelting rain, the greenish light, the crack and roll of thunder, the silver blue streaks of lightning, all seemed to come from some other domain where the normal rules of life were broken and magic prevailed. His reality had been jolted, and it made him feel sick and dizzy, as if he had received a blow to the head. And what of Matsuda? What if he were already dead? He not only had injured his teacher; he had utterly failed to bring help to him.

They crossed a small ridge and began to descend, and suddenly Shigeru knew where he was. Not penetrating deeper and deeper into the spirit world but coming down toward the hut on a track he had often used before. He began to run, not knowing if he passed the spirit-man, only thinking, with bursting chest, of Matsuda.

The rain streamed from the eaves of the hut, churning the ground beneath, running in muddy eddies toward the pool. Matsuda lay on his side, exactly as Shigeru had left him, still asleep but no longer snoring.

Shigeru knelt beside him. The quilts were already wet and the old man’s skin felt clammy.

“Sir! Lord Matsuda!” He shook him gently. To his relief, Matsuda’s eyes flickered, but he did not waken.

There was a slight change in the pattern of the rainfall, and Shigeru’s guide stepped onto the veranda. Also kneeling, he felt for the pulse in the neck.

“What happened?”

“I hit him. We were practicing; he is teaching me the sword.”

“You hit Matsuda? What kind of a novice are you? You look like one of the Otori.”

“I am Otori Shigeru. I have been sent to Terayama for a year; it’s part of my education.”

“Lord Shigeru, I’m honored to meet you,” the man said, with a hint of irony. He did not offer his own name. Bending over Matsuda again, he opened the old man’s eyelids and peered into his eyes. Then he gently felt the contusion on the temple.

“I don’t think you broke the skull. You just knocked him out. He’ll wake up soon. I’ve got some herbs here-dried vervain and willow bark, and other things. Make a tea from them: it will stop the pain and the nausea. Make sure you stay with him. The danger is not so much from the blow as from choking afterward.” He took out a small bag and handed it to Shigeru.

“Thank you,” Shigeru said. “I am extremely grateful to you. Come to me when I return to Hagi and you will be rewarded.”

His voice trailed away; he felt foolish, for what reward could he offer a fox-spirit? Yet when the man was there, he seemed so real, human, and ordinary.

“Maybe one day I will come to Hagi.”

“You will always be welcome. Tell me your name.”

“I have many names. Sometimes people call me the Fox.” He laughed at Shigeru’s expression. “Take care of your teacher.” He bowed deeply, saying, “Lord Otori,” his tone both respectful and mocking. He vanished.

Shigeru carried Matsuda into the hut and set him down on the mattress, built up the fire, and fetched fresh water. He was soaked to the skin. He took off his clothes to dry them and sat naked by the fire until the water boiled. It was not cold; when the rain eased at the end of the afternoon, the heat returned, even more sultry than before.

Just before nightfall, Matsuda began to stir. He seemed to be in some pain. Shigeru quickly brewed the tea and helped the old man sit up and drink it. Matsuda did not speak but patted Shigeru’s hand as if to reassure him. Then he lay down again. The herbs took effect quickly. The old man slept deeply and calmly until dawn.

Shigeru dozed a little but mostly stayed awake thinking about the extraordinary events of the day. He no longer believed the stranger to be a supernatural being. Now that he was thinking more calmly, it was all too clear who the man was-he could only be from the Tribe. He had vanished and reappeared just as his father had described when speaking of the woman he had loved. What an amazing skill to have; how useful it would be; no wonder warlords like the Iida family used such men as spies. How vulnerable his own clan seemed. What defense could there be against such people? The encounter had ignited an intense curiosity in him to find out more about them, to discover how he could protect himself and his people against the Tribe-even if he might use them himself.

He hardly allowed himself to think about the most extraordinary event of all-that he had overcome his teacher in combat; he had knocked out Matsuda Shingen. It seemed even more impossible than the man who could go invisible.

The heat eased a little, a slight breeze sprang up, and birds began to herald the dawn. Shigeru sat cross-legged and began the morning meditation. When he opened his eyes, it was fully light and Matsuda was awake.

“I need to piss,” the old man said. “Help me outside.”

He walked a little unsteadily but otherwise seemed to have recovered. After relieving himself, he went to the spring and rinsed his mouth with water.

“Does your head hurt?” Shigeru said, helping him back to the hut.

“Not much now. Whatever it was you gave me last night worked.”

“I’m so sorry,” Shigeru began.

Matsuda said, “Don’t be sorry. Be proud of yourself. It’s quite an achievement. No one’s done that to me for a long time. Of course, I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“It was a fluke,” Shigeru said.

“I don’t think so. But who was here with you?”

“I met a man in the forest. I ran after the monks and took a wrong turn… There was a huge storm…”

“You were panicking, in other words,” Matsuda said.

“I thought I’d killed you!”

“If you had, it would only have served me right.” Matsuda laughed. “Nothing to panic about. Who was it, one of the villagers? I must get the ingredients of that tea.”

“I’d never seen him before. I wasn’t even sure he was human. He seemed more like a spirit. Then afterward I realized he must have been from the Tribe.”