That evening I'd been right over the mountain to a place where the best mushrooms grew. But every now and then I could not resist the lure of the mountain, and at the end of the day I slipped away, through the bamboo grove with its tall, smooth trunks and green slanting light, up the rocky path past the shrine of the mountain god, where the villagers left offerings of millet and oranges, into the forest of birch and cedar, where the cuckoo and the nightingale called enticingly, where I watched foxes and deer and heard the melancholy cry of kites overhead.

I did not mind the idea of marriage to one of the girls I'd grown up with, and that summer I worked harder alongside him, ready to take my place among the men of the village. He grumbled more often, that I should settle down, stop roaming the mountain like a wild monkey, marry into one of the village families. I grew six inches in a year, and by the time I was sixteen I was taller than my stepfather. I turned fifteen and my mother began to lose our wrestling matches. Raised among the Hidden, with all their gentleness, I did not know men did such things to each other. I had never imagined men and women could actually be torn into eight pieces, their strong, honey-colored limbs wrenched from their sockets and thrown down to the waiting dogs.

Mino was a peaceful place, too isolated to be touched by the savage battles of the clans. So I thought it was a manner of speaking. And her voice would whisper in my ears the words of blessing of the Hidden, while my stepfather grumbled mildly that she spoiled me, and the little girls, my half-sisters, jumped around us for their share of the hug and the blessing. The wrestling usually ended with her winning, her prize being the hug I could not escape from. She was strong from endless hard work, and not old: She'd given birth to me before she was seventeen, and when she held me I could see we had the same skin, although in other ways we were not much alike, she having broad, placid features, while mine, I'd been told (for we had no mirrors in the remote mountain village of Mino), were finer, like a hawk's.

'Where's that wretched boy? I'll tear him apart when he gets back.'īut when I did get back, muddy from sliding down the hillside, bruised from fighting, once bleeding great spouts of blood from a stone wound to the head (I still have the scar, like a silvered thumbnail), there would be the fire, and the smell of soup, and my mother's arms not tearing me apart but trying to hold me, clean my face, or straighten my hair, while I twisted like a lizard to get away from her. I would hear her voice, rough and fierce, echoing through the lonely valley. My mother used to threaten to tear me into eight pieces if I knocked over the water bucket, or pretended not to hear her calling me to come home as the dusk thickened and the cicadas' shrilling increased.

Across the nightingale floor book 2