The Harsh Cry of the Heron (52 page)

‘I slept badly, that’s
all. I must be well, I must continue to dazzle and impress. I cannot be
otherwise.’

Minoru raised his eyebrows
very slightly, surprised by Takeo’s bitter tone.

‘Surely your visit
has been a huge success?’

‘We will know by the
end of the day.’

Takeo came to a
sudden decision and said, ‘I am going to dictate something to you. Make no
comment and tell no one. You need to be forewarned in order to arrange our
return home somewhat earlier than anticipated.’

Minoru prepared the
inkstone and took up the brush without speaking. Dispassionately Takeo related
all that Mai had told him the previous night, and Minoru wrote it down.

‘I am sorry,’ he said
when he had finished. Takeo looked reprovingly at him. ‘I am apologizing for my
lack of skill. My hand trembled and the writing is very poor.’

‘It does not matter,
as long as it is legible. Keep it safe: I will ask you to read from it later,
tonight or tomorrow.’

Minoru bowed. Takeo
was aware of his scribe’s silent sympathy; the fact that he had shared the news
of Taku’s death with another human being gave him a little relief from his
anguish.

‘Lord Saga has sent
you a letter,’ Minoru said, producing the scroll. ‘He must have written it last
night. He shows you great honour.’

‘Let me see it.’ The
writing reflected the man, bold and forceful, the new ink strokes black and
emphatic, the style square.

‘He congratulates me
on the Emperor’s graciousness towards me, and on the success of my gift, and
wishes me good fortune today.’

‘He is alarmed at
your popularity,’ Minoru said. ‘And afraid that if you lose the contest the
Emperor will still favour you.’

‘I will abide by our
agreement, and I expect him to,’ Takeo replied.

‘But he expects you
to find some way of wriggling out from it, and so he sees no reason why he
should keep it.’

‘Minoru, you have
become too cynical! Lord Saga is a great warlord from an ancient clan. He has
made this agreement publicly. He cannot go back on it without bringing
dishonour on himself, and nor can I!’

‘That is precisely
how warlords become great,’ Minoru muttered.

The streets were even
more crowded than the day before, and people were already dancing frenetically.
There was a feverish atmosphere; the day was hotter, with the humidity that
heralded the plum rains. The arena in front of the Great Shrine was packed
around all four sides with spectators: women in hooded robes, men in brightly
coloured clothes, children, all holding sunshades and fans. Within the red sand
outer circles the horsemen waited: Saga’s team had red cruppers and breast
straps, Shigeko’s white. The horses’ saddles were inlaid with mother-of-pearl;
their manes were plaited; their forelocks and tails flowed as shiny and silky
as a princess’s hair. A thick yellow straw rope divided the outer circle from
the inner, where the sand was white.

Takeo could hear the
yelping of excited dogs from the eastern side of the arena, where about fifty
white dogs were penned in a small enclosure festooned with white tassels. At
the back of the ground, a silken booth had been erected for the Emperor, who
was hidden as before behind a bamboo blind.

Takeo was guided to a
place a little to the right of this booth, and made welcome by the noblemen and
women, warriors and their wives, some of whom he had met during the festivities
of the previous day. The kirin’s influence was already apparent: one man showed
him an ivory toggle carved in its likeness, and several women wore hoods
decorated with its image.

The atmosphere was
that of a country picnic, lively and chattering, and he tried to take part in
it wholeheartedly. But every now and then the scene would seem to fade and the
sky darken, and his eyes and mind filled with the image of Taku, shot in the
neck and bleeding to death.

He turned his
attention to the living, to his representatives: Shigeko, Hiroshi and Gemba.
The two pale grey horses with black manes and tails contrasted strikingly with
Gemba’s black. The horses paced calmly around the ring. Saga himself was
mounted on a large bay horse, his two supporters Okuda and Kono on a piebald
and a chestnut. Their bows were huge compared with Shigeko’s - and all three
had arrows fletched with white and grey heron’s feathers.

Takeo had never
witnessed dog hunting before, and the rules were explained to him by his
companions.

‘You can only hit
certain parts of the dog: back, leg, neck. You mustn’t hit the head, the soft
part of the belly or the genitals, and you lose points if you draw blood, or if
the dog dies. The more blood, the worse the shot. It’s all about perfect
control, which is very difficult to achieve when the horse is galloping, the
dog is running, and the archer is powerful.’

They rode in order of
rank, from lowest to highest, the first pair Okuda and Hiroshi.

‘Okuda will go first
to show you how it is done,’ Saga said to Hiroshi, generously, for to ride
second held a slight advantage.

The first dog was
brought into the circle: Okuda also entered the ring and put his horse into a
gallop, letting the reins fall on its neck as he brought his bow upwards and
set the arrow.

The dog’s leash was
slipped off, and it immediately began to prance about, barking at the galloping
horse. Okuda’s first arrow whistled past its ears, causing it to yelp in
surprise and back away, its tail between its legs. The second arrow struck it
on the chest.

‘A good shot!’ the
man next to Takeo exclaimed.

The third shot caught
the running dog in the back. The arrow was released with too much force: blood
began to stain the white fur.

‘Rather poor,’ was
the verdict.

Takeo felt tension
begin to build in him as Hiroshi entered the ring and Keri began to gallop. He
had known the horse almost as long as he had known the man: nearly eighteen
years. Could the grey withstand this sort of contest? Would he let his rider
down? He knew Hiroshi was highly skilled with the bow, but could he compete
with the top bowmen of the capital?

The dog was released.
Perhaps it had been watching its fellow’s fate and knew what was in store; it
shot immediately out of the circle, pelting back to the other dogs. Hiroshi’s
first arrow missed it by a footspan.

The dog was captured,
brought back and released once more. Takeo could see it was terrified and snarling.
They must smell the blood and the fear, he thought. Or maybe they communicate
with each other and warn each other. Hiroshi was more prepared this time, but
the arrow still failed to hit its mark.

‘It’s harder than it
looks,’ Takeo’s neighbour said sympathetically. ‘Takes years of practice.’

Takeo stared at the
dog as it was brought back for the third time, trying to will it to sit still.
He did not want Hiroshi to hurt it, but he did want him at least to score one
hit. The crowd went silent: beneath the sound of the galloping horse he could
hear a very faint humming, the noise Gemba made when he was content.

No other human could
hear it, but the dog could. It stopped struggling and yelping, and when it was
released it did not race away, but sat and scratched itself for a moment before
getting up and walking slowly round the circle. Hiroshi’s third arrow hit it in
the flank, knocking it to the ground and making it yelp, but not drawing blood.

‘That was an easy
one! Okuda will win this round.’

And so the judges
decreed. Okuda’s second hit, even though it drew blood, was scored higher than
Hiroshi’s two misses.

Takeo was preparing
himself for another defeat - and then no matter how Shigeko fared, the contest
would be decided. His eyes rested on Gemba, no longer humming in relaxed
contentment, but looking as alert as he ever did. The black horse beneath
looked alert too, gazing at the unfamiliar scene with pricked ears and large
eyes. Lord Kono was waiting in the outer circle on his fine-boned high-spirited
chestnut. He rode well, as Takeo already knew, and the horse was fast.

Since Hiroshi had
lost the previous round, Gemba rode first this time. The next dog was more
docile, and did not seem frightened of the galloping horse. Gemba’s first arrow
seemed to hover through the air and land gently on the dog’s rump. A good hit,
and no blood. His second shot was similar, again not drawing blood, but the dog
was alarmed by now, running and zigzagging across the ground. Gemba’s third
shot missed.

Kono then came out on
the chestnut, putting it into a showy gallop around the outer circle, sending
the red sand flying. The crowd roared in appreciation.

‘Lord Kono is very
skilful and very popular,’ Takeo’s neighbour informed him.

‘He is indeed a joy
to watch!’ Takeo agreed politely, thinking, I am losing everything, yet I will
show neither anger nor grief.

The dogs in the
enclosure were getting more excited; the yelping turned to howling, and each
dog released was made wilder by alarm. Nevertheless Kono scored two perfect
bloodless hits. On the third attempt the chestnut horse, over-excited by the
cheers of the crowd, bucked slightly as Kono drew the bow, and the arrow sailed
over the head of the dog and hit the side of the wooden platform beyond.
Several youths jumped down to claim it, the lucky victor brandishing it over
his head.

After a long
discussion by the judges, the second bout was declared a draw.

‘Now we might have an
Emperor’s decision,’ the man next to Takeo declared. ‘That’s always very
popular: it’s how an overall draw is decided.’

‘That does not seem
very likely, since I believe Lord Saga is considered to have the highest skills
in this sport.’

‘You’re right, of
course. I just did not want to  ...  .’ The man appeared overcome with
embarrassment, and after a few moments’ awkward silence he excused himself and
walked away to join another group. He whispered to them, and Takeo heard his
words clearly.

‘Really, I cannot
bear to sit next to Lord Otori while he faces his own death sentence. I can
hardly enjoy the sport for pitying him!’

‘It’s being said that
this contest is an excuse for him to retire without being defeated in battle.
He does not mind: there’s no need to feel sorry for him.’

Then silence fell
over the whole arena as Shigeko entered the circle and Ashige began to gallop.
He could hardly bear to look at her, yet he could not tear his eyes away. After
the male contestants she seemed tiny and fragile.

Despite the
excitement of the crowd, the frantic barking of the dogs, and the rising
tension, both woman and horse seemed completely relaxed, the horse’s gait swift
and smooth, the woman straight-backed and serene. Shigeko’s miniature bow and
arrows elicited gasps of surprise, which turned to admiration as the first one
gently nudged the dog in the side. It snapped at it, as if at a fly, but was
not hurt or frightened, and then it seemed to sense that this was a game, one
that it was happy to play. It ran around the circle in perfect time with the
horse: Shigeko leant down and let the second arrow go as if it were her hand
and she were stroking the creature’s neck. The dog shook its head and wagged
its tail.

Shigeko urged the
horse to a faster gallop and the dog ran at its heels, mouth open, ears flying,
tail plumed. They circled the arena three times like this; then she pulled the
horse to a halt in front of the Emperor. The dog sat behind her, panting.
Shigeko bowed deeply, put the horse into a gallop again, circling ever closer
to the dog, which sat and watched her, swivelling its head, its pink tongue
lolling. The third arrow flew faster but no less gently, hitting the dog with a
barely audible sound just below its head.

Takeo was overcome
with admiration for her, for her strength and skill, perfectly controlled,
tempered by gentleness. He felt the corners of his eyes grow hot, and feared
pride would unloose what grief had not. He frowned and held his face impassive,
his muscles immobile.

Saga Hideki, the
final contestant, now rode into the white sanded circle. The bay horse was
pulling at the bit, fighting its rider, but the man controlled it easily with
his huge strength. He wore a black robe, with arrow quills emblazoned across
the back, and a deerskin over each thigh to protect his legs, the black scut
hanging almost to the ground. When he lifted his bow the crowd gasped; when he
set the arrow they held their breath. The horse galloped, foam flying from its
mouth. The dog was released: barking and howling, it dashed across the ground.
Saga’s first arrow flew faster than the eye could follow, perfectly judged; it
hit the dog in the side, knocking it over. The dog struggled to its feet,
winded and dazed. It was easy for Saga to hit it again with his second arrow,
again drawing no blood.

The sun was in the
western sky, the heat increasing as the shadows lengthened. Despite the
shouting all around him, the howling of the dogs, the shrieking of children, an
icy calm descended upon Takeo. He welcomed it, for it deadened all emotions,
laying its frozen hand over grief, regret and rage alike. He watched dispassionately
as Saga galloped around the circle again, a man in perfect control of mind and
body, steed and weapon. The scene became dreamlike. The final arrow flew,
hitting the dog in the side again with a dull, muted sound. It must have drawn
blood, he thought, but nothing stained the white fur or the pale sand.