Lian Hearn - Heaven's Net Is Wide

Terada’s son came and sat beside him with one of the tortoise-shell-colored cats that sailors believe bring good luck, showed him how to tie knots for nets with a piece of resined cord, and related stories about kindly dragons and magic fish, every now and then leaping to his feet when he spied a flock of seabirds or a school of fish. He was an attractive boy, plumpish, robust, very like his father.

The sun was low in the sky by the time they came to shore. Its light turned rocks and sand golden. They had seen no boats out at sea, but here, close to the coast, several tiny craft were bobbing in the water. The fishermen seemed both hostile and afraid at the sight of Terada’s ship, and Shigeru suspected some earlier encounter might have turned violent.

“This is where Katte Jinja is,”Terada said, pointing toward the shore, where the shrine’s roof could be seen between twisted pine trunks. “You don’t have to worry about these people; they won’t hurt you.”

There was something more than the usual scorn in his voice, and Shigeru raised his eyebrows.

“They are Hidden,” Terada explained. “So they will not kill, not even to defend themselves. You will find them interesting, no doubt.”

“Indeed,” Shigeru said. “I might even question them about their beliefs.”

“They will tell you nothing,” Terada said. “They will die rather than disclose or forswear them. How long will you stay?” he questioned as his men prepared to lower Shigeru over the side into the thigh-deep water.

For the rest of my life, he wanted to reply, but instead said vaguely, “I suppose three nights of apparitions will be enough.”

“Three nights too many, if you ask me.” Terada laughed. “Expect us at this time four days hence.”

The sailors gave him a basket of rice cakes and salted fish, and Shigeru took his own bundle of clothes, holding these over his head, along with Jato, as he waded ashore.

At the top of the beach were a few hovels; women and children sat outside them, tending fires around which small fish were drying on bamboo racks. They stopped what they were doing and bowed their heads without speaking as Shigeru walked past. He glanced at them, noting that the children, though thin, looked healthy enough, and that several of the women were young and not ill-looking. They all looked tense, ready to bolt, and he thought he could guess the reason-the presence of Terada’s predatory, unprincipled men. No doubt, missing their own women, the sailors took these, knowing their husbands would not fight to defend them. He resolved to speak to Terada about it. These were her people. It was wrong that men from his clan should prey on them.

Like Seisenji, the shrine seemed abandoned, neglected. He could hear a bullfrog in the shrine garden. It was evening now, the last rays of the sun spilling onto the verandas of the old wooden buildings, casting shadows from every knot and irregularity of roof and floor. There were the horses, tethered in one of the outbuildings; the same mare, the same packhorse. His heart leaped suddenly with the realization, only half believed till this moment, that she was here, that he would hold her, hear her voice, smell her hair. All the pent-up desire and longing of the past six months rose like a flame within him.

His senses seemed unnaturally acute, as though one layer of skin had been stripped from him. He could already smell her perfume and the female scent that lay beneath it.

He called softly, “Is anyone there?” His voice sounded like a stranger’s to his own ears.

The young man, Bunta, came round the side of the building, saw Shigeru and stopped, looking momentarily startled, before dropping to one knee and bowing.

“Lord-” he said, cutting his speech off before he uttered Shigeru’s name.

Shigeru nodded to him, saying nothing.

“The ladies are in the garden,” Bunta said. “I will tell my lady that a visitor is here.”

“I will go to her,” Shigeru replied. Despite Bunta’s discretion, the man made him uneasy. He could so easily be a spy from the Tribe, could so easily betray them. Yet at that moment Shigeru knew that nothing, no threat of death or torture to himself or to anyone he loved, would stop him from going to her.

I am bewitched, he thought as he walked swiftly round to the back of the shrine, remembering the tale she had written for him. The garden was overgrown and untended, the spring grass tall and green, studded with wild flowers. The cherry blossom was just past its peak, the ground covered in drifts of white and pink petals, like a reflection of the flowers that still clung to the branches.

Lady Maruyama and Sachie sat on cushions placed on stones around the pool. It was clogged with lily pads and lotus leaves, and one or two deep purple early irises bloomed at its edge.

She looked up at the sound of his footfall, and their eyes met. He saw all color drain from her face and her eyes go lustrous, as though the sight of him were a physical blow. He felt the same; he could barely breathe.

Sachie whispered something and Naomi nodded, her eyes never leaving Shigeru’s face. Sachie stood, bobbed her head to Shigeru, and disappeared into the shrine.

They were alone. He went and sat beside her, in Sachie’s place. She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder, her hair spilling across his chest. He ran his fingers through her hair and over the nape of her neck. They stayed like that for a long time, neither of them speaking, listening to each other’s breath and heartbeat.

The sun set and the air began to cool. Naomi drew back and gazed into his eyes.

“Just before you came, a heron alighted at the edge of the pool. Sachie and I agreed it was a sign that you would soon be here. If you had not come tonight, I would have left tomorrow. How long can you stay?”

“Some fishermen from Hagi brought me. They will return in four days.”

“Four days!” Her face lit up even more. “It is an eternity!”

MUCH LATER HE WOKE, hearing the surge of the sea on the shingle and the noises of the night from the grove around them. He heard the horses stamp as they shifted their weight. Naomi was also awake; he saw the moonlight that drenched the garden glint on the surface of her eyes. They watched each other for a few moments; then Shigeru said quietly, “Where were your thoughts?”

“You will laugh at me,” she replied. “I was thinking of Lady Tora of Oiso, drowning in love.”

She referred to the well-known tale of the Soga brothers, their revenge and the women who loved them.

“Juro Sukenari waited eighteen years for his revenge, did he not? I will wait as long, if that is what it takes,” Shigeru whispered.

“Yet Juro died-his life fading with the dew of the fields,” Naomi replied, quoting from the ballad that was popular with blind singers. “I cannot bear the thought of your death.”

He took her in his arms then. Death had never seemed so distant or life so desirable. Yet she was trembling, and afterward she wept.

THE FOLLOWING DAY was sultry, unseasonably hot. Shigeru rose early and went to swim in the sea. When he returned, he did not dress fully but went half clothed to the back of the shrine and began the exercises he had been taught by Matsuda. Both body and mind were tired, slightly dulled, drained by the slaking of passion. He thought of the night’s brief conversation. It was only two years since his father’s death and the betrayals of Yaegahara. Was he really capable of maintaining the pretences of his present life for so many more years? And for what purpose? He could not raise an army against Iida. He would never meet him in battle, or indeed in any situation where he might come close enough to him to strike him down. He might allay Iida’s suspicions against him, but how would he make use of this? He might be a better swordsman than Iida, though even this seemed doubtful this morning when he was so tired and so slow, but he did not have the skills to surprise him, to ambush him…