bushes, staring into the darkness. He could make out two shadows in the flat space at the bottom of the valley a few hundred yards away. He couldn’t see the men clearly, but he didn’t need to. He could tell where they were from the faint smell of cologne floating in the wind. He breathed a sigh of relief. The first to discover the opponent controlled the outcome.
They can’t be professionals. A pro would never wear aftershave. And it’s so dark, how can they see anything? They must be using a nightscope.
Fortunately, the moon was still covered by clouds. With a night-scope, you could see a target eight hundred yards away under the moonlight. Without moonlight, you could see less than five hundred yards. Masakichi wondered whether he should ignore whoever was following him completely, take an alternate route, and go straight to the village.
Suddenly a strong wind shook the forest. Jumping up into the wind, Masakichi rushed down the cliff, hiding in bamboo bushes that were taller than he was.
Masakichi smiled wryly to himself. Jinzaemon’s lesson, “Use anything you can to survive,” had stayed with him all those years. He stopped behind a tree, hugging its trunk.
He was still two hundred and fifty yards from the men. If he took one wrong step, they would find him. He had no weapons. He was sure that they did. His heart beat wildly.
He took a deep breath, listening to the crickets’ song. There seemed to be hundreds of males in the grass, rubbing their wings to entice the females. He picked out the voice of a cricket whose song sounded like a high-pitched bell. Then he exhaled between clenched teeth, mimicking the cricket as he moved in the bamboo bush, carried along with the breeze.
How miserable
the cricket singing
under the helmet
Masakichi recalled Bashō’s haiku. The poet had written it when looking at the great warrior Saito Betto Sanemori’s helmet. Saito was a medieval samurai who’d fought his last battle at seventy-three. Most people thought the poem expressed the pathos of being killed by a young samurai he’d once taught and served. His death was made even more tragic by the song of the cricket under his heavy iron helmet.
Masakichi disagreed. To him, the cricket was old Sanemori himself, facing certain death in battle with unwavering resolve. Like the cricket, he continued to sing right up to his death, even while the heavy helmet weighed down on him. He met his death with a song.
How painful to live in this world! Even at my age, when I should accept death quietly, why am I clinging to life? Masakichi asked himself.
Because there’s so much left to do! Rika’s just arrived. I must survive to give the secrets of our tribe to her so she can pass them on. Now that Satoko’s gone, Rika and Hiro are the only link to the past.
Masakichi imagined that he was the cricket, singing as his life drew to an end. Staring at the faint shadows of the two men in the darkness, he laughed at himself. How ridiculous he was, mimicking the sound of a cricket! The two men, whoever they were, were staring intently in his direction.
What now? It’s a waste of time to sit here chirping. Why do they want to kill me? He knew his life was in danger, the way he knew the very direction of the wind. I must have done something really bad in my former life to end up like this in my dottage.
Once again, the wind descended from the north, sweeping down from the top of the mountain. Masakichi picked up a fist-sized stone and threw it behind the two men. Just as the stone landed, the wind swept through the whole valley. Masakichi took off through the bamboo.
The misty rain covered the valley with a serene silence, lulling every creature to sleep. Masakichi stuck his palm out and let the rain fall into it. He tasted the fresh water, salty from his own skin. He wiped his face with the mist, as if purifying himself in it.
The last time I met death, I survived by accident. But this time….
Another strong northerly wind blew down from the mountain-top. When it reached the bottom of the valley and stirred the mist like smoke, Masakichi disappeared into it gracefully, just as he had done so many years before.
CHAPTER 12
アテルイの祠 Aterui no Hokora
Aterui’s Cave
Jet and Hiro made their way down an animal trail into a bamboo grove where thick green stalks stood over seven feet tall.
As they walked, pushing aside the huge wet leaves, the sound of water became louder. They came to a pile of rocks on the mountainside.
“Here’s the cave,” Hiro said.
Jet hesitated. She didn’t want to leave the bamboo grove. Satoko had taught her that a bamboo grove was the safest place in an earthquake, since the roots grew deep and strong, weaving to create a natural grid that locked the earth in place.
Jet surveyed the grove. If only the bamboo could offer safety now.
“Come on, follow me in,” Hiro whispered.
“I can’t,” Jet stammered.
“Why not?”
“I’m scared,” she replied.
In all the training her mother had made her endure, the one thing Jet hadn’t conquered was this—a fear of small, dark spaces. Dark mountaintops, okay. Dark highways, okay. But caves? Jet shivered. She’d sooner sleep in a pit of vipers.
As the images flashed through her mind, Hiro stood beside her, waiting. Was he seeing them, too?
“I used to be afraid, too. But Ojiisan taught me how to conquer my fear.”
“How?” Jet ventured.
“Well, first of all, don’t deny it. Accept that it’s there.”
“Right,” Jet said. “That’s what the itako said, too.”
“Yeah. Just try to call it something else. Not fear, but….” he bit his lip. “Extreme dislike, for example.”
Jet laughed. “I can do that,” she said.
“Good, that’s a start….” he glanced around. “Anyway we better go in. It’s not safe outside.”
Hiro crouched and entered the cave. There was a candle near the wall. He cupped it in his hand, lighting the wick with matches. He then brought it to the entrance, showing Jet the cave’s depths. In the flickering light, Jet saw how young he was. She sensed how afraid he must be. Yet, he carried on.
“Come on,” he waved his hand, gesturing her towards the cave’s opening.
She took a step inside. The air smelled of wet earth, and the wind echoed from outside like a howling animal.
“Look,” he said, shining the candle toward a small wooden shrine deep in the cave. Hiro carried the candle there, pressed his palms together and bowed in front of the shrine. Jet stayed at the entrance, knees shaking, repeating his gesture.
Then Hiro sat on the damp earth as she stayed at the entrance,
