Heaven's Net Is Wide by Lian Hearn (good books to read for 12 year olds .TXT) 📕

35

Shigeru’s next concern was the coming Festival of the Dead. It had been his custom, at this time, whenever possible, to visit Terayama, where many of his ancestors were buried. He had heard that his father’s ashes had been taken there after the battle, but he had not attended the funeral; nor had any ceremony been conducted in Hagi-only his brief prayers in the Tribe village. It was his duty, he felt, to go there now, to pay his respects to his father and have prayers said for him, their ancestors, and the Otori dead, and to escort his brother home, for Takeshi was still at the temple. And he longed to see Matsuda Shingen, to hear from the Abbot some words of wisdom that would teach him the way to live the rest of his life.

He spoke to Ichiro of his desire to travel to Terayama, and the older man said he would approach the Otori lords and see if such a journey would be permitted. Rage swept through Shigeru at the implications of this reply; he was no longer free to travel through the Middle Country; he had to seek his uncles’ permission in everything. But he was more able now to control his anger, and he gave no indication of it to Ichiro, merely asking him to seek permission as soon as possible, as arrangements needed to be made and he wanted to send messages ahead to Matsuda.

He did not receive a direct refusal, but constant evasive replies made him realize that permission either would not be granted or would be given too late for him to arrive at the temple before the first day of the festival. He decided to take matters into his own hands and put on the disguise that he had worn with Muto Kenji: the old, unmarked traveling robe and the sedge hat; he wrapped Jato’s hilt in sharkskin, took a small pouch of food and a string of coins, crossed the river at night by the fish weir, and began to walk through the mountains.

If anyone challenged him, he had decided he would say he was on a pilgrimage to one of the remote shrines in the mountains to the south of Hagi, but no one seemed to suspect his identity. The months after the battle had seen many masterless or dispossessed warriors crossing the Three Countries, making their way home or seeking refuge in the forest, often resorting to petty banditry to survive. He realized his face and person were not known; people did not recognize him. When they had looked at him before, they had seen not him, the individual, but the heir to their clan. Now that he no longer traveled with all of the trappings of Lord Otori, he was invisible. It was both a shock and a relief.

Many people traveled with their faces hidden, wrapped in scarves or concealed beneath conical hats like his. He walked, seemingly deep in his thoughts, as impenetrable as any black covering, but studying the land as he passed through it, taking note of the state of the rice fields, the management of the forests, the fields cut from the mountainside where villagers grew vegetables, fenced with stakes against wild boars. It was high summer, the rice fields brilliant green, the forests deep and shaded, sonorous with the strident cicadas, the air heavy and humid. The forest echoed with birdsong and the sound of insects; and every night the cries of frogs rang from the dikes and pools.

He kept away from the high roads, following steep narrow tracks, getting lost from time to time but always continuing south, until he came to the hut where he had spent the summer with Matsuda. He arrived at dusk, startling the tanuki, which dived under the veranda, and spent the night in the hut. It seemed to have been closed for some time: the air was musty, the embers in the fine gray ash long cold. It was filled with memories for him, of Matsuda’s teaching, of Miura’s death, of the fox-spirit who had become a friend called Muto Kenji; he ate the last of the food he had brought with him and then sat in meditation on the veranda while the starry vault of the sky wheeled above him and the tanuki went out on its nighttime prowling; when it returned just before dawn, Shigeru also retired inside the hut and slept for a few hours. He awoke refreshed, feeling somehow more whole than he had for months, breakfasted on spring water, and resumed the last stage of his journey.

In the middle of the day, he rested for a while beneath the massive oak where he had seen the houou. He could still recall, clearly imprinted in his mind, its white feather, tipped with red. Matsuda had spoken to him then of death, of choosing the right path toward making his death significant-but now he was still alive when so many had died; had he made the right choice? Or would the result of his actions simply be to drive the houou away from the Middle Country, never to return?

There was no sign of the warriors who Kitano had said were surrounding the temple-maybe when the surrender treaty was signed they had all returned to Yamagata, its many inns and beautiful women, or had gone home to Tsuwano to prepare for the harvest. Nevertheless, despite the apparent peace and tranquillity of the temple, the serene curve of the roofs against the deep green of the forest, the white doves fluttering around the eaves, endlessly croo-crooing, Matsuda Shingen could not hide his concern at Shigeru’s arrival. Shigeru had just walked into the main courtyard and spoken to one of the monks raking the gravel and sweeping the paths-the temple was not fortified at that time, and the main gate was kept open from dawn to midnight. The monk, mistaking him