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  At that moment, however, three men, obviously the boy’s companions, came into view. Saya faltered and drew back. They might be thieves or kidnappers. She fought back a scream as various frightening possibilities raced through her mind. There was something about them that was completely alien to the world she knew. But the men made no move to accost her. The three of them, wearing the same black clothes and fur leg guards as the boy, merely stood silently staring at her. To her frightened eyes there appeared to be not three but five or ten of them. Their large stature and cool composure certainly suggested the assurance of greater numbers. She could have fled back to her friends but, to her own surprise, she turned once more to the boy and held out her hand. “Give it back, please,” she said. “That belt is mine.”

  The boy gazed coolly into her face for a moment. Then a highpitched fragile voice came from behind him. “Give it back, Torihiko.”

  Startled, Saya looked up. It was not one of his three companions feigning a woman’s voice. Rather, among them stood a small, whitehaired old woman leaning on a staff. She was so tiny that Saya had not seen her at first. The boy called Torihiko smiled with unexpected meekness and offered the belt to Saya.

  What an odd group of people, she thought.

  She could not help but stare at them as she took her belt. Although all three men seemed huge, on closer inspection only the one standing in the middle was truly gigantic. His companions were not that much bigger than the village men. It was their air of power that made them stand out. They wore their hair bound in loops by their ears, in accordance with common custom. But their beards were thick, their skin, deeply tanned, and their eyes shone with an unearthly light. One wore a black leather patch over one eye, and this, coupled with the bright gleam in the other, made him appear particularly forbidding. The second was younger and slimmer, but his eyes, too, gleamed dangerously. The man in the middle surpassed ordinary men in girth and height and had arms as thick as young tree trunks, but, of the three, he looked the kindest.

  The old woman, in contrast, was about the height of a five-yearold, giving her the appearance of a wizened child. Her staff was at least twice her height, and her head and eyes seemed too large for her spare frame. A halo of white hair like thistledown made her head appear even bigger than it was. In this company, the boy seemed almost normal. But why were they just standing there staring at her, as if they had been waiting for her all this time?

  The old woman suddenly blinked, froglike, and spoke. “Excuse me, but is it much farther to Chief Azusahiko’s house?”

  “No, it’s just over there,” Saya answered quickly. “Follow the river and bear right when you come to the pine forest. You can’t miss it.”

  “Could you perhaps guide us there? We’ve been invited to the Kagai and wish to pay him our respects.”

  “Oh, I see.” Saya relaxed. “Are you the musicians for the festival?”

  “Yes.”

  Suddenly their dusty sandals and leg guards, their sedge hats and the old woman’s staff did not seem so strange. It was quite common for traveling musicians and performers to wander from village to village at festival time. Until now Saya had seen musicians only during festivals, playing the koto or the flute, but no doubt they had all come from far away. It was the custom for musicians to be entertained at the home of the head chieftain for several days before and after the festival before they resumed their wandering.

  “I’d be happy to take you there if you would just wait a moment while I go and get my washing,” Saya said.

  As she was turning to leave, however, the boy casually remarked, “You have a small birthmark on your right palm, don’t you?”

  Saya turned back in surprise. She had a pale pink oval mark like a flower petal in the hollow of her palm. Normally, she never thought of it, but it bothered her to think that this sharp-eyed boy had been staring at it.

  “I was born with it. What about it?” she answered somewhat brusquely. She was used to remarks about red birthmarks being caused by seeing a fire.

  “You weren’t born in this village either, were you?” he asked with a mischievous look.

  Saya frowned. Although deeply shaken, she kept her poise. “What makes you say that? Does having a birthmark automatically mean that that person wasn’t born in this village?”

  Just then, she caught snatches of something the man with the eye patch murmured to his neighbor. “The same as . . . You can tell because . . . She has the face of the Water Maiden.”

  The Water Maiden? Who’s that? She stiffened. Although she had never heard the name before, it filled her with a sense of foreboding that she could not shake. Her heart pounded and the blood drained from her face as though she had been touched by an icy finger. Aware that the old woman was watching her, Saya asked hoarsely, “Where do you come from?”

  She waited expectantly, thinking that they must come from the east. Perhaps they knew something about her true origins. But instead the old woman answered casually, “From the west. And some of us from the south. There are many small but prosperous villages hereabouts.” The old woman’s inner thoughts could not be read in her wrinkled face. All her energy seemed to be concentrated in her gleaming eyes, but these, too, betrayed no flicker of emotion. Slightly disappointed, Saya remained silent, when suddenly the old woman asked, “Have you ever heard of Princess Sayura?”

  “Princess Sayura? No.”

  “Mmm, I thought not. I thought not.” The old woman nodded to herself. “It’s been a long time since she passed away, although her death in the palace of the Prince of Light seems like yesterday to me.”

  “Was she a relative?” Saya asked, puzzled. The old woman spoke of the Princess as if she were her own daughter, yet the palace in the capital city was the home of Prince Tsukishiro and Princess Teruhi. No one was even allowed through the palace gates unless they were of very high rank.

  The old woman did not reply, and the boy smothered a laugh. Saya suddenly felt ashamed and a little angry, as if she was the only one who had missed something obvious.

  In the next moment she was hailed by cheerful voices from the grassy riverbank. Several friends had followed her out of curiosity. “Hey! Saya! Are you all right? Did you get your belt?”

  The girls, who had raced to the top of the bank, stopped in their tracks, eyes wide with surprise as they caught sight of the strange group of people. Grateful to her friends for rescuing her from an awkward situation, Saya hastily explained, “These people found it for me. They’re the musicians for the festival. I’m taking them to the head chieftain. Won’t you come with me?”

  The girls’ faces brightened. Anything out of the ordinary was a welcome diversion. Laughing excitedly, they rushed back to collect their washing.

  “What odd people!”

  “They remind me of Ground Spiders.”

  “Stop exaggerating. That’s not a very nice thing to say.”

  “But just look at them. You know what they say. Ground Spiders are either long of leg and arm or really short. They sleep in nests in the trees in summer, and in winter they live in caves. That description fits them perfectly, doesn’t it?”

  Everyone laughed. None of them had ever met a Ground Spider. They knew that it was a derogatory name given to the frontier people who refused to worship the God of Light, but, not knowing any better, they used it for anyone who looked odd or different. As such, it aptly expressed the musicians’ strangeness, and Saya laughed, too. But her smile froze as she recalled her friend’s words: “long of leg and arm or very short.” At last the reason for her anxiety crystallized. She glanced quickly behind her at the sober black figures on the grassy riverbank. The disparity in their sizes was almost comical. And there were five of them. Five.

  Suppressing the sudden racing of her heart, Saya told herself fiercely, Impossible! It’s just a coincidence. My dream couldn’t possibly have come back to haunt me, not on such a sunny day as this. Not in broad daylight. It can’t be.

  2

  “PROMIS
E?”

  “Yes. I promise,” Saya said solemnly. “I swear before the God of Light that I will not accept gifts from, or reply to, the songs of Akihiko, Muraji, Toyo, Ohiro, and—um—Mahito.”

  “All right, then. That’s settled.” Although they spoke lightly, the girls were serious. Beneath their excitement and anticipation lurked an insecurity they could not totally suppress. The surrounding hills were robed in a breathtaking display of fresh, new leaves that seemed to tinge even the white cloth of their garments green. Intoxicated with their own youthful beauty, they wavered between shyness and pride, aware that the pure white of their clothes, the alpine roses in their hair, and the azalea adorning their sashes became them now more than they would at any other time.

  “It looks as if I’ve lost out,” Saya remarked to the girl beside her.

  “Well, it’s your own fault. You’re the one who didn’t choose somebody.”

  “Don’t worry about Saya. She won’t have any trouble finding a partner!” interjected a girl who wore a bright yellow sash.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Why, she asks! Saya, you’re unbelievable!” exclaimed a girl crowned with a wreath of green leaves. “Don’t you know how attractive you are? Just the other day someone was saying you don’t look like any ordinary village maid.”

  “What do I look like then?” Saya retorted.

  “Cheer up. They meant that you’re beautiful.”

  “Beautiful. Just like a princess. Princess Saya.”

  “Oh, stop it!” Saya exclaimed irritably. She was in no mood for joking about herself after what she had overheard the one-eyed musician saying. “She has the face of . . .” Whose face? Was she really that different from everyone else?

  The girl beside her gave her shoulder a friendly pat and laughed. “Don’t worry! No one who knows your true character could ever mistake you for a princess.”

  Meanwhile, on the southern slope of Mount Itsuki, in a glade marked by a large camellia tree and surrounded by a forest of oak, horse chestnut, and chinquapin, young men were busy laying wood for an enormous bonfire. Each village had its own spot in the glade where the older women were busy preparing food for the Kagai and dishing it out onto oak leaves. A rope of woven straw encircled the glade with folded paper decorations hung along it at regular intervals. Beneath each of these was placed a barrel of sake. The men were already flushed with its effects. Although the camellia flowers had fallen, a little farther into the wood alpine rose bushes with silverbacked leaves bore large red blooms, and golden kerria and white brier roses bloomed like stars along the mountain stream. The village girls, whose job it was to distribute flowers, were busy choosing the best for themselves.

  “AFTER ALL, we’re the bearers of spring,” said a girl with a madder-red cord around the middle of her sash. “It’s only natural that we should wear the prettiest flowers.”

  “That’s right. We’re supposed to entice the god down off the mountain peak and back to the land. At least, that’s how it was in the past.”

  “In the past?” Saya asked.

  “Before the shrine was built honoring the God of Light. That’s why the shrine maiden doesn’t approve of the Kagai. But I don’t blame her. Just think. She has to stay up all night long with no one for company!”

  “Who was the god that came down from the mountain?”

  “I don’t know. The Kagai is just a custom now. But it’s a good one. I’d hate to see it disappear.”

  Another girl, who was adding sprigs of yellow kerria to the posy in her sash, remarked flippantly, “But the old gods are dead. The radiance of the God of Light was too much for them. The only ones who worship them now are the Ground Spiders.”

  “Oh, how horrible! I certainly don’t want to entice any god of theirs!” said another girl.

  “Of course not. There’s only one person you’re interested in enticing,” Saya remarked dryly, causing several of the girls to laugh.

  As she picked the golden kerria that resembled miniature sake cups, Saya felt herself drawn to the idea of a god descending from the mountain. It seemed sad that they should be preparing themselves in this way when there was no longer any god to greet.

  THE SUN SANK SLOWLY behind a distant mountain peak and the sky deepened from blue to red, from red to purple, and then rapidly to indigo. The moon, like a disk of beaten copper, rose in the eastern sky, and at its appearance the bonfire was lit. A great cheer arose from the crowd. The flames leapt higher and higher, rising to a pillar of fire that lent the glade a midday brightness. Saya blinked and stared at the smiling faces illumined by the firelight, merging with the shadows crouching at their feet. The festival had begun. Chief Azusahiko made his way to the front and delivered a speech, encouraging them to enjoy the evening. Already white-haired, he was a man of integrity, untainted by ambition, well respected by his people. The only complaint ever raised against him was that he was a little dull. As soon as his speech ended, the music began. With a shiver of apprehension, Saya stole a glance at the makeshift musicians’ platform. All five were there.

  She had not seen them since the day they had met on the riverbank. No longer garbed in dusty black, they wore robes of the finest hemp cloth—perhaps a gift from the head chieftain. Their hair was adorned with sprigs of leaves, and they bore themselves with dignity. In fact, they looked much better than before—almost normal. The largest beat the big drum, the two other men played the hand drum and reed pipes, while the boy played the flute and the old woman the koto, leaning over so far that she almost straddled the instrument. Besides, no matter how suspicious they might have appeared, no one could have complained about their music, which rang clear and bright over the glade, slipping effortlessly into the hearts of the people and raising their spirits high.

  “Those musicians are great!” someone remarked, impressed.

  “Saya! Don’t just stand there. Come and join the dance. If you stay there daydreaming, the girls from other villages will beat you to it!” Saya started from her reverie to find that the girl beside her was tugging at her sleeve. Nodding her thanks, she set off at a run.

  The people circled the fire several rings deep, their bodies swaying and their feet stamping out a simple rhythm as they danced around it. The heat of the flames fused with that of the dancers, reaching fever pitch. Although, at first, some laughed loudly or played the fool, the drumming of their feet gradually became a single rhythm as if some irresistible force drew them together until their footsteps beat in perfect unison, shaking the very mountains and echoing from the treetops. By the time the moon had reached its zenith and its silver face gazed down upon the glade, the spellbound dancers were drunk with excitement and the clearing pulsated in time with the fire. It was a perfect festival evening: the full moon shone hazily through a mist of downy deutzia flowers, scattering crystals of pale light in the night air.

  When the dancing had reached its peak, the rhythm of their drumming feet faltered. The dancers no longer had ears for the music, searching instead for that one special person who would return their gaze—man for woman, woman for man. For this one night, even married men and women were single again. Here and there songs were already being sung, songs of enduring love for a husband or wife. Those who had found a partner drew close and slipped away from the ring of dancers into the shadows of the trees to exchange their gifts.

  As for Saya, she was finally regretting the vow she had made. It had never occurred to her that the boys whom she had sworn to reject would, one after the other, seek her out as a partner. She had played and fought with them as children, but after their initiation into the ranks of the village youth, there had been few opportunities to meet. And even if they had met, they had only greeted one another from afar. She had not realized that these same boys had grown into broadshouldered young men who regarded her as a woman. She was only now beginning to realize how her friends had tied her hands.

  They don’t even deserve to be called friends, she thought. Yet she knew that it pro
ved just how sincere their feelings were, for they truly loved the ones they had named. She had no one to blame for her predicament but herself. What am I doing here? she thought. She, too, yearned to find someone: to face one man and, with her hands in his, to pledge her heart. But when she turned to face her next suitor, she was so filled with disappointment that she could have wept. Before her stood Mahito, the last of the five youths named by her friends.

  “Not you, too?”

  Mahito, the former village bully, was three years older than Saya and had once been a troublemaker in the neighborhood. In the short space of time since she had last seen him, however, he had become a handsome young man, the stubbornness receding from his oval face. Even his pug nose had somehow become attractive. When his tall figure drew near, she felt as though she had been touched by invisible fireworks.

  “You were always so mean to me,” she remarked. Mahito laughed, but his eyes were serious.

  “That’s because I knew that this day would come, Saya. That when you came of age I would have to kneel before you and beg you to answer my song at the Kagai.”

  Dazed, she could only stare at him in bewilderment. “But you just ignored me last year and the year before that.”

  “Last year was last year. This year, Saya, you’re the most beautiful girl in the land. I can’t bear to stand by and see you claimed by someone from another village. Sing me your song. Make it the one I want to hear.”

  The alpine rose perched above her ear tilted as she bowed her head. She had already exhausted her repertoire of refusals. Along with many love songs, all the young women memorized several songs that would gently put off unwanted suitors. These were traditional songs that she should have known by heart, yet now she could not remember any. What was she to do? Should she refuse him with a hastily improvised song? Or should she . . .