“It’s really, really hard. But it’s fine if you’re not cold.”
Sora’s black hair was long, according to the tradition of the clan, and it was neatly tied back with a plaited vermilion cord and magatama stones shaped like curling teardrops. He drew vermilion lines out from the corners of his eyes. He had tidied up Fuuka, too, his hair flashing white in the dark. They needed to blend in among the people of Heian-kyo, including how he had told Fuuka to call him “Brother” in a formal manner.
This was a ritual. And a rite of politics.
“…Fuuka.” Sora studied his brother, who was about the same height as him but whose features were still very childlike, and lowered his bow. “I still think you should go back to the north.”
In fact, try as he might, Sora couldn’t figure out why he had brought his little brother with him in the first place.
“How come?”
Fuuka probably didn’t understand why they had journeyed across the wild trails on horseback all this way to Heian-kyo. He didn’t know that his older brother was here to avenge his master, using arrows painted with deadly poison. Fuuka was innocent in all of it.
The people in the capital called Sora and Fuuka’s home in the north “Ezochi”—the barbaric, or foreign, land. When the boys were born, the northern lands were already locked in fierce battle against the armies of the Yamato Imperial Court, and a formidable fortress, the Isawa Castle, had been built. The people were weary from the twenty-year conflict. Two clan leaders, Aterui and More, chose to surrender to end the fatigue of their people.
“I am here to assassinate the sei-i taishogun with this bow and arrow. His name is Sakanoue no Tamuramaro. I can do this on my own.”
Aterui and More had met the commander and come to know him well before they decided to surrender. Sakanoue no Tamuramaro had convinced them that by surrendering, they could give their people a better, more peaceful life with means of farming, sericulture, and, most important of all, ritsuryo. Believing in him, they had accompanied him down to the capital.
“Why’re you killing him?”
“He broke his promise. Aterui and More didn’t return alive. I can’t go back, Fuuka. You should go home on your own.”
When the news came at the end of the summer that Aterui and More had been beheaded, the people of the north were devastated. They were no longer the strong band they once were, the Emishi whom the Imperial Court had seen as a force to be reckoned with. After long years of harsh conflict, the execution of Aterui—the pride of their people, their fiercest warrior—was their final undoing.
Awata-guchi was a site of execution, where the heads of the dead were left out in the open for all to see. The travelers pouring into the capital would stop here and observe the beheaded lawbreakers.
“Executing them was dirty enough. But to display them like criminals and use them as a warning…”
Sora was born clever and beautiful, and he was often chosen to perform dances for rituals. On the day his people fell back in the battle, there was even talk of offering Sora to the spirits of the forest.
Sora didn’t mind. His people lived with the forests, the rivers, the mountains. He believed that the outsiders, who were trying to remold their way of life with the completely foreign logic of man-made law called ritsuryo, were the barbaric and contemptible ones. He felt no resistance to becoming a sacrifice if it would help fight back against their inhuman ways.
It was Aterui, his leader, who had refused the sacrifice. “Do you all think I am so weak as to need the life of a young boy?” he had demanded.
Aterui had made every important decision. His rule brought happiness to many people of the north—even in this surrender. In exchange for his own death, he brought peace and stability to his people.
Aterui’s justice was the only thing in the world that Sora had ever trusted.
“Where is he?” Fuuka asked. “Where’s the commander man?”
Aterui had been beheaded in the summer, and now spring was coming. Many among their people, once called Emishi, were now starting to engage with the Imperial Court in their daily lives.
“Tamuramaro has declared he will build another castle in the north.”
There was no sign of a major resistance among Sora’s people. The laws of government were swallowing them up. Their battle had come to a close with Aterui’s death.
And so Sora made his way to Heian-kyo, where Sakanoue no Tamuramaro resided. Living among people who gave up the struggle, the women who had loved Aterui helped Sora prepare for his journey. “Come back safe,” they told him. But Sora knew he would not.
“So he should be passing this way, on his way up north.”
Sora and Fuuka had been lying in wait there for several days. They were used to hiding in the mountains. But they also had to stay awake at all times so as not to miss their opportunity to intercept the commander.
“Fuuka, go back home. Please.”
With no food and barely any sleep, Sora was feeling dizzy. He had sworn to take vengeance, but he felt his life ebbing away.
“Everyone insisted that I take you with me, so I gave in, but ever since you were little…” He recalled the times when he had quarreled with his people over what was right and wrong. “You’ve always been the one to stop me when I fought with people. I don’t know why they wanted you to be with me this time.”
Sora could never forgive anyone when he witnessed them doing something unjust or wicked, whether they were children around his age or grown-ups, and he always confronted them head-on. When the argument reached the point that swords might be drawn, it was always Fuuka who wrapped his arms around him and tried to hold him back.
“I’m always with you, Big Brother. I’ll protect you! Promise.” Fuuka flashed a carefree grin, and Sora smiled weakly.
“But how?”
Fuuka had never even fought with anyone before, let alone wielded a weapon. Why did he bring his little brother? When? Sora could hardly think straight anymore.
“Where’d those kids come from?” The voice came from behind in the harsh accent of the capital. “Odd to find them in a place like this. Oddly dressed, too.”
When Sora turned around at the deep voice, soldiers were already about to cross the path, wearing the familiar armor made of soft leather.
“Maybe they were brought here from the continent? I’ve seen the likes of them near the Imperial Palace. See, they tie the sash high up, like that.”
This was Sora’s first time seeing an army. The mass of soldiers under the command of Sakanoue no Tamuramaro, probably on their way to build the castle, was far beyond any horde he could have imagined.
“But all in white? That’s peculiar. And their magatama stones are vermilion… I’ve seen those before. Could they be Emishi?” One of the soldiers who had fought in the northern battles apparently remembered the shape and arrangement of the tear-shaped stones.
“Aren’t they pretending to be foreigners from the continent? This is where Aterui was executed, after all… Our commander said we should pray to the dead before we departed, but that’s invited nothing but trouble. Seize them!”
Despite Sora and Fuuka’s white silks, the soldiers quickly saw past the disguise, and the brothers were quickly grabbed by their arms and hemmed in by the massive crowd.
“Don’t touch them! What is it? What happened?”
Beyond the wall of soldiers, a large man dismounted from his steed, suspicious of the break in his ranks.
Sora had never laid eyes on Sakanoue no Tamuramaro, but he knew who it was just from the way his feet hit the ground. There he was—the man who had fought against Aterui as an equal, and the man to whom Aterui had surrendered himself, believing the promise that he could bring more happiness to the people of the north.
“How could he believe in this coward, hiding his own weak conviction under sheets of armor?”
The people of the north didn’t protect themselves with such full-body plates. They didn’t wield iron swords embellished with ornaments. This man appeared stubborn and honest, but he had allowed Aterui’s head to be displayed in the open.
Sora chose a slit in the armor to pierce with his arrow. Mustering all the strength he had, he flung aside the soldier’s arm, grabbed the fortified grip of his bow, nocked an arrow, and pulled the string back till it was taut.
“…!”
Before the arrow could be released, Tamuramaro pushed aside Sora’s arms.
“Brother!”
Speechless at the heavy, dull pain in his bones, Sora was immediately shoved down on the ground by the soldiers.
“How dare you…! You may be a child, but we cannot let you live. Off with his head at once!” shouted a soldier.
“He should be pleased to die in the same spot as Aterui!!” another one proclaimed.
As Sora heard their voices, his cheek pressed against the dirt, he felt exactly that—honored to die where Aterui had fallen.
From now on, the traces of Aterui, the single guiding light of justice in his world, would only grow more and more faint. Aterui’s will was already beginning to disappear. Sora no longer had a home to return to. Even now, the people of the north were obeying a shapeless idea called “law” rather than a human being.