“I intend to,” Shigeru said. “I’m only sorry you have suffered so, through my decision and my defeat.”
Night fell, and for a while they walked as if blind, yet Komori knew the path and did not falter. By the time the moon rose, they had crossed the valley, the pale light casting shadows on the summer grass, picking out the young seed heads. Now and then a fox barked, its mate screamed, and an owl floated suddenly out of the darkness.
Komori started with the same energy Shigeru remembered, and they traveled at some speed, saying little; but as the night wore on, and the half-moon traversed the sky, Komori began to waver; his feet strayed from the path, and several times Shigeru had to take him by the arm and guide him back. He began to babble, believing himself first to be in the mine and then in Inuyama.
“Across the nightingale floor,” he mumbled. Shigeru did not understand him, and Komori seemed gripped by a desperate desire to explain. “That is where you will find Iida, but no one can reach him because no one can cross it.”
Shigeru made him lean on his shoulder, putting his arm around him to support him and feeling the man’s flesh begin to burn as the fever mounted and the blood soaked away. Day was breaking as they reached the next pass. They stopped to rest for a few moments. At their feet lay a steep valley, followed by the next range; he did not think Komori could manage the climb, and wondered how far he would be able to carry him.
“I’m thirsty,” Komori said suddenly, and Shigeru lifted him and carried him down to the river. He set the man down in the shallow water on the nearer bank.
“Ah, that feels good.” Komori sighed, but within moments he was shivering violently. Shigeru cupped his hands and helped him to drink, then drew him up onto the rocky bank into the morning sun.
“Go, Lord Shigeru, leave me here,” Komori pleaded in moments of lucidity, in between trying to impress on Shigeru the path he must take to reach Mino. But Shigeru could not bring himself to abandon him to die alone, so he sat with him, bathing the sweat away and moistening his parched mouth.
Komori said suddenly, “When you come out from underground, the world always looks so bright and fresh, as if it had just been created!”
He spoke so clearly Shigeru imagined he was recovering, but he did not speak again; and before midday he was dead.
There was nowhere to bury him. Shigeru piled rocks over the body as best he could and said the necessary prayers for the dead; he resumed his journey, sick at heart with sorrow and rage for Komori’s terrible punishment, for the sufferings of his people. Komori had said he should return at the head of an army-but he had no men, no influence, no power. All he had was his sword and the boy who waited somewhere ahead of him. Now he let his rage give him the strength to walk day and night toward him.
Finally, he came to the small village, Hinode, a few houses and an inn around a series of hot springs. The air smelled of sulfur, and the village itself was shabby and dirty. He asked about the surrounding district and was told that the only other village nearby was the tiny one of Mino, not much more than a hamlet, on the other side of the mountain, a day’s walk away, where no one ever went and the people were considered strange. The woman who ran the inn would not say more, though Shigeru pressed her and though she was quite happy to take his coins and knew very well what silver was.
He slept for a few hours and set out before daybreak, following the track she had told him about. It was steep and narrow, a hard climb up to the top of the pass, and then an awkward scramble down. The path did not seem much used-the two villages obviously had little contact with each other-except by adders who as the day grew hotter basked on the warm surface and shot away into the undergrowth at his approach.
When he reached the pass, it was mid-afternoon. He realized the weather was changing, dark clouds moving in from the southwest. He was about halfway down toward the valley when it began to rain. As the light faded, a renewed sense of urgency gripped him. He thought he could smell smoke and hear shouts and screams. What if Iida were there? What if he were finally able to confront his enemy? He found his hand straying to Jato’s hilt and felt the sword’s longing to be released. He plunged downward, leaping from rock to rock, ignoring the path, taking the most direct route, until his rushing descent was halted by a huge cedar that rose beside the path on the edge of the bamboo grove, next to a small stone shrine. The straw rope round the trunk gleamed in the dusk.
There was no doubt about the smell of smoke. It filled his nostrils and made his mouth dry. Ahead of him he could even see the glow of flames. An ominous silence had fallen; apart from the hiss of the rain, there was no sound at all. No screaming, no clash of swords, no dogs barking, no birds singing. However, as Shigeru caught his breath, he heard footsteps. Someone was running up the path toward him, running for his life, pursued, he thought, by at least three men.
Shigeru stepped out from behind the tree, and the boy ran straight into him. Shigeru caught him
