The wound left a scar that faded to silver against the honey-colored skin like a three-day moon.
ONE DAY in early spring a few years later they were working together by the river, cutting alder saplings whose bark would be stripped to make cloth. The river was swollen from the thaw; it swirled over the coppiced base of the alders and raced across the rocks in its bed, deafening them with a noise like many men shouting. Shimon had already had to speak severely to Tomasu; first the boy had wanted to pursue a fawn and its mother that had been drinking from the pool; then he had been distracted by a pair of kingfishers. Shimon bent to gather the saplings already cut, tied them into a bundle, and carried them up the slope so they would not get washed away. He left Tomasu alone for only a moment, but when he turned to look back, he saw his stepson disappearing downstream in the direction of the village.
“You worthless boy,” he yelled futilely after him, torn between continuing the work and pursuing him to punish him. His rage got the better of him; he grabbed one of the saplings and set off downstream. “I’ll thrash him properly for once! We’re too soft with him! It’ll do him no good in the long run.”
He was still muttering to himself when he came round the bend in the river and saw his youngest daughter, Madaren, struggling in the muddy water. She must have tried to cross the river by the stepping-stones, had slipped into one of the deep pools, and was trying to save herself by grasping at the exposed roots in the bank.
Tomasu had already reached her. The little girl was shrieking, but Shimon could barely hear her above the roar of the water. He dropped the stick he was carrying and saw the river whisk it away. Tomasu was only just able to stand in the spot where Madaren had fallen in. He peeled her fingers back from the root she was clutching, and she threw herself at him, clinging like a baby monkey to its mother. He held her tightly against his shoulder and, half swimming, half scrambling, brought her to the shore where Shimon took her from him.
Sara came running, giving thanks that the child was safe, scolding Maruta for not looking after her, praising Tomasu.
Shimon looked at his stepson as Tomasu leaped onto the bank, shaking the water from his hair like a dog. “What made you take off like that? You got to her just in time!”
“I thought I heard her calling me,” Tomasu replied. He was frowning. “But I couldn’t have…” The noise of the river rose around them, drowning all other sound.
“The Secret One must have warned you,” Shimon said in awe, and taking the boy’s hand traced the sign of the Hidden on his palm. He felt Tomasu had been chosen in some way, to become a leader of the Hidden, perhaps, to take over eventually from Isao. He began to speak more seriously to him at night about spiritual matters and to lead him more deeply into the beliefs of the Hidden. Despite Tomasu’s hot temper and restlessness, Shimon thought the boy had a natural gentleness and an aversion to cruelty, which both his parents did their best to foster.
IT WAS RARE for strangers or travelers to come to Mino. The village lay hidden in the mountains; no roads came near it, only the tracks over the mountain and along the river through the valley. Both were almost impassable, overgrown through lack of use. A landfall had all but blocked the valley path a few years previously. Occasionally one or other of the men crossed the pass to Hinode and returned with news and rumors. It was nearly sixteen years since the stranger came and disappeared again; well over fourteen since the birth of his son. Tomasu had grown into a striking young man. No one teased him anymore, and he no longer got into fights. Both boys and girls, Shimon noticed, sought him out, and it made his stepfather start to ponder the question of marriage. He gave Tomasu more tasks to do, demanding he spend less time running wild on the mountain but work alongside the men of the village and prepare for adult life.
Mostly Tomasu obeyed him, but one evening early in the ninth month he disappeared into the forest, telling his mother he was going to look for mushrooms. Shimon, returning wearily from a distant field where they had been harvesting the last of the beans, heard his wife’s voice echoing through the valley.
“Tomasu! Come home!”
Shimon sat heavily on the board step of the house; he was stiff all over and his joints ached. The night air felt frosty; winter would come soon.
“I swear I’ll tear him into eight pieces,” Sara grumbled as she brought water for her husband to wash.
“Unh!” he grunted, amused, knowing she would never carry out that threat.
“He said he was going for mushrooms, but it’s just an excuse!”
Their older daughter came running up to the house. Her eyes were bright with excitement, her cheeks glowing pink from the cold air. “Father! Father! Tomasu is coming and there is someone with him!”
Shimon stood, startled. His wife stared toward the mountain, shading her eyes.
The light was fading into dusk. Tomasu appeared out of the darkness, leading a short, stocky man who carried a heavy pack in a bamboo frame on his back. As they crossed the last dike, Tomasu shouted, “I found him on the mountain! He was lost!”
“No need to tell the whole world,” Shimon muttered, but already people were emerging from their houses to stare at the stranger. Shimon glanced at them; he had known them all his life; they were the only people he had known, apart from the last stranger who had come out of the forest and caused such grief. Shimon knew of course which families were Hidden and which were not, but to an outsider they were indistinguishable.
Tomasu brought the man up to the step. “I told him we would feed him. He can stay the night with us, and tomorrow I’ll show him the path to Hinode. He has come from Inuyama.”
The boy’s face was alight with the thrill of it. “I found mushrooms too,” he announced, handing the bundle over to his mother.
“I’m grateful to your son,” the man said, easing the pack from his back and setting it down on the step. “I was heading for the village called Hinode, but I’ve never been this way before. I was completely lost.”
“No one ever comes here,” Shimon replied cautiously.
The stranger looked around. A small crowd had gathered in front of the house; they stared with deep and undisguised interest but kept their distance. Shimon saw them suddenly through the other man’s eyes: their old, patched clothes, bare legs and feet, thin faces and lean bodies. “You can understand why; life is harsh here.”
“But even the harshest life needs some relaxation, some adornment,” the man said, a wheedling note entering his voice. “Let me show you what I carry in my pack. I’m a peddler. I have needles and knives, threads and cord, even a few pieces of cloth, new and not-so-new.” He turned and beckoned to the villagers. “Come and look!”
He began to unwrap the bundles that filled the bamboo frame.
Shimon laughed. “Don’t waste your time! You don’t give those things away surely? We have nothing to spare to give you in exchange.”
“No coins?” the man asked. “No silver?”
“We have never seen either,” Shimon replied.
“Well, I’ll take tea or rice.”
“We eat mainly millet and barley; our tea is made from twigs from the forest.”
The peddler stopped his unwrapping. “You have nothing to barter? How about a night’s lodging and a bowl of millet and a cup of twig tea?” He chuckled. “It sounds like riches to a man who was facing a cold night on the hard ground.”
“Of course you are welcome to stay with us,” Shimon said, “but we do not expect payment.” He addressed his daughter, who had been staring at the peddler without moving. “Maruta, bring more water for our guest. Tomasu, take our visitor’s belongings inside. Wife, we will be one extra for the evening meal.”