“There is no need to arrange a formal procession,” Shigeru said when Nagai eventually gave in. He had had enough of ceremony. “I will ride with Irie, yourself, and a couple of guards.”
“Lord Otori.” Nagai bowed, his lips pressed tightly together.
Shigeru went out into the villages, saw the flooded rice fields being weeded, learned how the dikes were constructed and the water managed, climbed into airy lofts and heard the silkworms munching their short lives away; and finally overcame the reluctance of his companions and the shyness of the farmers and spoke to them, learning from their own mouths about their skills and customs, from their hands about their farming implements; heard the drums of the summer festivals held in local shrines high in the hills, as the rice god was celebrated with straw ropes and paper figures, rice wine and dancing; saw fireflies above clear rivers in the velvet dusk; realized the hardships and rewards of this life, its eternal cycles, its indestructibility. He put on traveling clothes, unmarked by the clan symbol, relishing the feeling of anonymity, but he could not remain unrecognized for long. People stopped work to look at him, and he was aware of their gaze, conscious that he was becoming a symbol to them, transcending his own self and his human limitations, turning into the embodiment of the Otori clan. He was there for three weeks only, but it was a visit that was never forgotten, forming the foundation of the love and reverence the people of Yamagata held for Otori Shigeru.
He also rode or more often walked through the town, noting its shops and small businesses, soybean processing and wine fermenting, swordsmiths, potters, lacquer artists, carpenters, mat makers, painters and draftsmen, peddlers and street sellers; he had map makers come to the castle to show him their charts of the town and he pored over them, memorizing each house, each shop and temple, resolving he would do the same in Hagi when he returned.
Nagai was an austere and meticulous man. The records of the Otori clan at Yamagata were scrupulously kept. Shigeru grasped how easy it was to find information among the scrolls, which were kept in paulownia and camphor-wood boxes, with rue leaves placed inside. They were stored in logical order by year, district, and family and were written clearly and legibly, even the oldest ones. It was reassuring to see the history of his people recorded in such detail. Realizing that the records interested Shigeru as much as the farmers and townspeople, Nagai softened toward him. By the end of his visit, the two had formed a close bond of respect and affection, and like Shigeru’s teachers in Hagi-Irie, Miyoshi, and Endo-Nagai was relieved that the son showed none of his father’s shortcomings of indecisiveness and introspection.
SHIGERU WOULD HAVE stayed longer-there was so much to learn-but the imminent arrival of the plum rains demanded his departure. However, Yamagata was close enough to the temple to allow frequent visits, he hoped, during the year he was to spend with Matsuda Shingen.
As they rode slowly past the rice fields, where dragonflies skimmed and hovered, and into the bamboo groves, his thoughts turned to the man who would be his teacher. Everyone spoke with awe of Matsuda, of his supreme skill with the sword, his unequaled knowledge of the art of war, his complete mastery of mind and body, and now his devoted service to the Enlightened One.
Like all his class, Shigeru had been raised in the teachings of the saint brought from the mainland centuries before but adapted somewhat to the philosophy of the warrior. Self-control, domination of the passions, awareness of the fleeting nature of existence and the insignificance of life and death were all instilled from childhood, though to the fifteen-year-old, life seemed not at all insignificant but something immeasurably rich and beautiful, to be enjoyed with all the senses, and his own death so remote as to be almost inconceivable. Yet he knew death could happen at any moment-a fall from a horse, an infected scratch, a sudden fever-as easily as on the battlefield and at this time more probably. He had no fear of his own death-the only death he still feared was Takeshi’s.
The saint, a young man like himself, a ruler with all the material blessings life can offer, had been moved by pity for men and women trapped in the never-ending cycle of birth, death, and suffering and had studied, traveled, and finally sat in meditation until he came to the Enlightenment that freed him and all those who followed him. Many hundreds of years later the warrior Matsuda Shingen had become one of the most devoted of his disciples, had given up the practice of war, and was now a simple monk, rising at midnight to pray and meditate, often fasting, developing skills of mind and body that most men did not even dream of.
So Shigeru had heard from his companions in Hagi, but what he remembered most clearly from his previous visits was the older man’s bright eyes and serene expression, filled with wisdom and humor.
Here, deep in the forest, cicadas droned incessantly. The horses’ necks turned dark with sweat as the climb grew steeper. The air beneath the huge trees was humid and still. By the time they reached the inn at the foot of the steps to the temple, it was almost midday. Here they dismounted and washed hands and feet, drank tea, and ate a little. Shigeru changed his clothes and put on more formal attire. It was almost unbearably sultry; the day had darkened and clouds were massing in the West. Irie was anxious about returning to Yamagata. Shigeru told him to leave at once.
Several of the men stayed at the inn with their horses. They would remain there for the entire year in case Shigeru needed them. The rest returned with Irie, first to Yamagata, then, when the weather allowed it, to Hagi. There was no time for long farewells-rain was already threatening. Two monks had come from the temple to greet Shigeru. He gave one final look at Irie and his men, one of them leading Karasu, as they rode back down the mountain path, the banners with the Otori heron floating above the last horse, and then followed the monks as they began to climb the steep stone steps. Servants trailed after him with baskets and boxes, his other clothes, presents for the temple, Eijiro’s writings, and scrolls from Yamagata.
The monks did not speak to him. He was alone with his thoughts, a mixture of anticipation at this new stage of his life and apprehension, knowing that the training and discipline would be immensely demanding; fearing it would be too hard, that he would fall short or fail, conscious-overconscious, maybe-of who he was; not wanting to disgrace his father and his own name. He had no intention of sharing these misgivings with anyone, but when he came through the temple gates where Matsuda was waiting for him in the first courtyard, he felt that the older man’s penetrating eyes could see through his chest and read the records of his heart.
“Welcome, Lord Shigeru. I consider it a great honor that your father has entrusted you to my care. I will take you to meet our Abbot and show you your room.”
As they stepped out of their sandals onto the boards of the cloister, Matsuda added, “You are to lead the life of a novice, apart from studying with me. Therefore you will sleep and eat with the monks and join them in meditation and prayer. You will have no special privileges while you are here. If you are to be trained in self-mastery, the more humble your spirit the better.”