The Golden Naginata

by Jessica Amanda Salmonson

  “The doctor came again and set the young man’s arm and said it would probably heal fine. ‘But,’ the doctor said, ‘your valor will not save your father. I have looked at him again, and am more certain than ever that he will die.’ So, despite his victory, the young man wept.”

  The tengu seemed to have finished the story, so Tomoe said, “Old Uncle Tengu is a good storyteller. How will his tale help in his vengeance?”

  “I have not told you the young man’s name.”

  “That’s so,” said Tomoe.

  “Nor the official’s.”

  “Then do so,” Tomoe suggested.

  “I will, and gladly. The official’s son is Imai Kanchira.”

  “My brother!” Tomoe looked stricken. The tengu’s evil grin grew larger. Its nose twitched back and forth.

  “And the official is Nakahara Kaneto, your father!”

  Tomoe fell to her knees before the tengu and cried. She said through bitter tears, “Thank you for bringing me the news.”

  “It was my pleasure,” said the tengu. “And it is good revenge, do you think? To bring a samurai to her knees before me, thanking me for delivering pain!”

  “It is good revenge,” Tomoe agreed. She bowed her head to the ground and begged to know, “How long before my father dies?”

  “If you left immediately,” said Old Uncle Tengu, “you could see him before he dies. But you cannot leave, can you? You have an errand to complete! If you leave tomorrow, it may be too late.”

  Tomoe did not rise from her bowing posture. She didn’t care if the tengu saw her weep. Her shoulders shook.

  “Now my vengeance is complete and I am fully satisfied,” said the tengu. “It will be easier for me to obey the command of the tengu-diviners from this moment on. To prove I am at least partially your friend, I’ll grant you a vision. I will let you see your father before he dies.”

  Tomoe looked up. Her cheeks were wet. She said, “You can do this? We can see each other?”

  “He cannot see you. But this toad I fished from the stream is not ordinary, for I used a special bait.” The tengu held up the creature he had caught on the fishing line. It looked like an ordinary toad except its eyes. When Tomoe looked closely, she realized the eyes were like two small mirrors. She gasped and backed away on hands and knees.

  “O-gama!” she exclaimed.

  “The toad-goblin can grant you the vision to see all the way to your home in Heida.” The tengu placed the toad on the ground. It opened its mouth like a little shibi urinal, and white mist began to exude. The mist swept up around Tomoe. She felt a rush of panic as her arms and limbs went numb; but the mists parted a bit so that she could see the countryside of Heida far from Isso. Her soul was being whisked away to her hometown! Directly, she was viewing her father who lay on a thick futon and was covered with two lighter futons. Tomoe’s grandmother sat on her knees near the foot of this bed. Tomoe’s brother, his arm bound to his breast, sat at the bedside, crying.

  The inability to feel her body was unsettling to Tomoe. She struggled mentally for some control, but could not succeed. It did not seem possible to get closer to her father.

  Nakahara Kaneto breathed deeply. He looked older than his years, aged by family troubles and then by sickness and injury. Yet his eyes remained open and alert; he must have known he was dying.

  Tomoe’s brother said, “Come to the side of the bed, Grandmother. Please make peace with Father as I have done.”

  “My son is dead already, Kanchira,” the old woman said. She was tired but stubborn. Obviously she had been taking care of her dying son; but she was still not speaking to him, because he had declared Tomoe dead. “He is dead for as long as my granddaughter is dead,” she explained. “I will not speak to his ghost. I am his ancestor; he is not mine. So I need not do his ghost honor.”

  It was a sorrowful situation. Kanchira was torn between love for both his father and grandmother. It caused him pain that they would not make up. He said, “Father. Is it so hard to beg Grandmother’s forgiveness?”

  The old man lay still, looking at the rafters.

  “Grandmother!” Imai Kanchira stood up, hurried to the foot of the bed and got down on his knees again. “For my sake, Grandmother! Father cannot live much longer. How can his ghost rest if you will not forgive him?”

  “As well as mine shall rest,” said the old woman.

  The dying man tried to speak. His son hurried back to his side and asked, “Will you speak, Father?”

  He said, “I regret,” then gasped for breath.

  Kanchira bowed closer to his father’s face. “What do you regret, Father?”

  “I regret … that I cannot see Tomoe.”

  The old woman tried to remain severe, but water filled her eyes. It was the first time since pronouncing Tomoe dead that Nakahara Kaneto had said his daughter’s name. It was as good as an apology. The old woman bowed to the floor and began to weep the many tears she had held back for so long. She wailed, “Do not die, Kaneto my son! I’m certain Tomoe will come home soon! We will all be united in happiness a final moment before you are gone!”

  It was an impossible wish, Tomoe knew; she could not leave for home in time. Unable to face the sadness in the room, Tomoe struggled to escape back to Isso. She felt her heart beat; it was the first thing she felt as her soul returned to its body. Then she felt nothing again. The mists parted and once more Tomoe saw her weeping grandmother, sad brother, and dying father. She fought to regain her body, but the magic of the toad was stronger. “I don’t want to see anymore!” Tomoe shouted, but didn’t make a sound. She found her hands in the mist; they were the only things she could see. With them she felt near her waist and discovered where her swords were kept. She drew the shortsword and threw it. The mist popped like a bubble and vanished instantaneously.

  The O-gama or goblin-toad was pinned between its eyes, dead, though its legs were kicking. The tengu’s hand was about to pick it up; but he jumped back from the dashing knife and exclaimed,

  “Why did you kill the O-gama? It gave you a present!”

  “Your vengeance has no bounds, tengu!” Tomoe was angry. “You made me see my family because you knew what they would say! They wait for my return; but you know, as do I, that I must serve Okio tonight!”

  “You are ungrateful, samurai!” the tengu complained. “I do not control the circumstances of your family’s life. They were things you should want to know! The O-gama could have invented a better vision, it is true; and a pretty lie is succor in time of trouble. But lies are not salvation!”

  “Tengu grant cruel favors,” said Tomoe. “So do not lecture me.” She stepped forward and retrieved her knife from between the O-gama’s eyes. Those eyes still shined like mirrors, closing slowly. Tomoe brandished the knife threateningly and said, “I have killed bigger demons than you! Hobble away quickly or I’ll cut off more of your feathers. I’ll send you home bald!” The tengu hopped away like a spry old man. He shed his garment to reveal his blue-tinted wings which had made him look hunchbacked in the ragged kimono. He said,

  “It is unfortunate that you feel like that!”

  Tomoe rushed forward with her knife. A log was drifting down the river and the tengu made a long, long leap, flapping his damaged wings awkwardly. He landed on the log and balanced himself as the stream took him away from Tomoe’s wrath.

  “We may spend our whole lives,” said the tengu, “exchanging vengeances like this!” Tomoe hurried downstream, following the log and its rider. She outpaced it and waited on the bridge, thinking to grab the tengu as it went under. But Old Uncle Tengu made another long, awkward, flapping jump which took him straight up into the trees. From there he vanished quickly, melding with the shadows and moving safely from treetop to treetop.

  Tomoe’s rage faded away, revealing the sorrow that was the true cause of her quick temper. When she was calmed down, she realized that the hour was late. The trip her soul made to Heida must have taken longer than she thought; she’d have to hurry to
reach the gardens in time. As she sped along the path toward Isso, she halted only once. She lingered briefly by the whimsical statue where she had previously left the plums. The plums were gone; eaten by the god, pits and all, or stolen by woodland animals. Tomoe said,

  “Though I am undeserving of your notice, I have a favor to ask you after all. Keep my father alive an extra day! It is important that I see him one last time, and beg forgiveness that I have been an undutiful daughter. Do this for me and I will never fail to honor rustic gods like you!”

  Then she was off once more, toward Isso.

  The nighted garden was still. Tomoe saw a note pinned to a tree inside the entrance. It was the letter drafted by Ich ’yama. Beneath it was a second note: “The Mukade Group accepts the challenge.” It was stuck to the tree by means of a six-pointed shuriken.

  There was a rustling high in the tree beneath which stood Tomoe. A man clad in ninja-costume—black, tight-fitting clothing, including hood and mask—dropped to the ground behind the woman. She turned quickly, sword slipping from scabbard. The ninja’s shorter sword was already drawn, yet Tomoe was too fast for him. Her sword licked outward. The ninja jumped back into the tree when he realized his surprise attack was ineffective. Tomoe’s sword slid easily into its scabbard once more. She looked up but could not see where the ninja hid.

  Blood trickled down the trunk of the tree and stained the two notes pinned there. The ninja fell out of the branches, landing at Tomoe’s feet. Her quick sword had cut him before he regained the tree, perhaps before he knew himself mortally wounded. She reached down to pull the dead man’s mask away. She recognized him as a fellow named Fusakuni Sumikawa, one of those etched onto her memory by the ghost of Okio. She had eight left to kill.

  In the sky there was a thin cloud-cover. Only the brightest stars winked through. Tana-bata was definitely ended. The new festival was a private one: a festival of death.

  The garden was inexplicably colder than the city streets had been. Tomoe took this as evidence of Okio’s ghost being nearby, watching, delighting at the destruction of his enemies. Tomoe wondered what influence the supernatural presence might have. Okio should see the vengeance, it was true; but if he desired to be helpful as well as witness, it could go badly, since the help, well-meant or not, was still rooted in Hell.

  There was another sound behind Tomoe. She reeled again, hand to hilt. In the darkness it was hard to tell who was coming. It turned out to be the bonze Shindo. He had left his monk’s staff somewhere so that the jangling rings would not scare away the hungry ghost of Okio. It was more fitting, anyway, that the steel smithed by Okio be the bonze’s only weapon tonight.

  “They’re hiding everywhere,” said Shindo, looking at the corpse Tomoe made. “Hidemi Hirota is circling around the far side of the garden, searching carefully. Fortunately not all of the assassins use ninja tricks. Some of them fight like honorable samurai, though not so well as yamahoshi. I have already killed four.”

  Tomoe did not reveal her amusement regarding Shindo’s boast about his mountain sect. Before she could comment on the talents of samurai versus martial priests, they heard a scream of agony. Tomoe and bonze Shindo hurried toward the place of the cry and saw Prince Shuzo Tahara standing over the body of a foe. “He fought well,” said Shuzo, looking at the bonze and then at Tomoe. “But the swords of Okio are vampires tonight!” The three exchanged steady glances, then separated again, scouring the garden.

  The stillness was eerie. No nightbird or insect sang. It was difficult to believe nearly forty foe hid among the bushes and trees and well-arranged boulders of the silent grounds. The garden was fairly large; its design was such as to give the illusion of even greater size; there were scores of lurking-places. Moonrise was not much help in lighting the scene, for the misty clouds turned the moon into the dimmest of lanterns. Yet Tomoe, like most samurai, was hard-practiced at night-battle. In schools it was common to learn to fight blindfolded. She could see better than when blindfolded at least!

  Veils of mist drifted between trees, looking like specters, tricking the eyes into believing adversaries stood where there were none, and disguising where they really were. Tomoe walked between two large stones, herself a virtual wraith, moving silently; and she came face to face with another: a man stepped out from the darkness with his sword raised, prepared to slay. Tomoe drew her sword casually and took a countering stance. But she was unable to strike. Something held her arms! She backed away from the assassin and he pursued. It was curious indeed that she could not take the offensive. The approaching man was not one of those shown her by the gaki spirit; by some supernatural interference, she was unable to kill any but her allotted portion. In using gaki-magic to reveal to each of his avengers only a fraction of Mukade Group, Okio had inadvertently bound each to slaying only those revealed!

  The stranger pressed nearer, wisely taking advantage of her evident inability to attack. His sword begain its descent; but suddenly he grimaced, lurched into a rigid posture, than began to collapse. As he fell, Tomoe saw that Hidemi Hirota stood behind her would-be killer. Hidemi had sliced the man down the spine. He indicated the fresh corpse and said, “He was mine!”

  “Where is Ich ’yama?” asked Tomoe, realizing the ronin had not been in evidence. Hidemi was reluctant to answer her. She said, “He must not fail to come! There are nine fellows only he can slay, due to limitations accidentally imposed on us by Okio’s hellish efforts. Ich ’yama’s portion will escape, or kill us, if the ronin stays away.”

  “He is here,” said Hidemi, looking at his feet. “Only … he will not come out of the house.”

  Shocked, Tomoe asked, “How is that?”

  “You arrived to the garden late,” said Hidemi, seeming to evade her query.

  “I was detained by a tengu monster,” Tomoe explained.

  “You need not excuse yourself to me,” said Hidemi apologetically, for he had not meant his remark to sound disparaging. “Only, you were not here to discover Ich ’yama’s decision.”

  “What decision is that?”

  Hidemi Hirota removed a paper from the fold of his obi. “Ich ’yama left this letter on the door of the house. I removed it when Shindo, Shuzo and I came here at sundown. After we read it, we decided not to enter the house or rely on the ronin. Our enemies have undoubtedly read it too; but they would not have understood its cryptic meaning. I did not understand it myself until bonze Shindo explained.”

  “Tell me!” Tomoe demanded.

  Hidemi looked embarrassed. “You read it for yourself,” he said. “Ich ’yama waits inside for the Hour of the Ox.”

  The Hour of the Ox was the spirit hour, the hour of death. At that time, monks throughout and around Isso repaired to temple yards or hillsides to strike the bosses of huge bells, frightening evil spirits away from the city and comforting the sleeping people. Tomoe meant to ask Hidemi why Ich ’yama would remain inside the house until then; but Hidemi had pressed the letter into her hand and scurried off too quickly to be grilled further.

  Before Tomoe could completely unfold the letter, a man’s head peered at her over a rock. Tomoe held the letter in her teeth and prepared to be attacked. The man was very handsome and smiled amiably, not offering to come out from behind the rock. She recognized him as Hitoshi Nakazaki and was anxious to kill him for Okio’s sake. “Come out!” she challenged, speaking with the letter in her teeth. “Show me how to duel!” Hitoshi Nakazaki only smiled more engagingly, perhaps amused by the way she made challenges with teeth clenched on paper. He watched her but didn’t move.

  An attack came from behind. Tomoe did not turn immediately to face her unexpected attacker, but blocked the downward cut by raising her sword sideways over her head. Steel rang on steel. She slid out from under the blow as the fellow moved out of range of her returned slice. This second man was Hitoshi Nakazaki’s brother Tatsuo. Hitoshi climbed over the rock so that soon both brothers were positioned to each side of Tomoe.

  She guessed their plan and wondered how
best to counter. They were trained as a pair and did not attack randomly, but alternated one busying her with dangerous feints while the other strove seriously to kill. Their timing was excellent. For the moment she was entirely on the defensive. She blocked to left and right quickly enough to avoid being pierced but was given no moment to instigate an attack of her own.

  She blocked them again then hurried backward in an attempt to get them both in front of her. They were too fast and clever for that. Several times she beat off their tandem assaults. Soon she was able to perceive the full and limited scope of their style and skill. They were fair swordsmen, but really excellent only in a few narrowly defined and practiced maneuvers. Finally she understood the means by which she might turn their best skills around, causing them to defeat themselves upon the edge of their own certainty.

  Tatsuo attacked on her left. She evaded his cut without blocking with her sword. It was an unexpected defense. To her right Hitoshi had already launched a fierce attack, but this time his timing was incorrect, for he had expected Tomoe to remain stationary and block as she had done several times. The result was that the two men carved into each others’ shoulders simultaneously. They looked at one another in stark surprise.

  “Brother!” said Hitoshi Nakazaki.

  “Brother!” said Tatsuo Nakazaki.

  Tomoe slashed twice. Two brothers died embracing, swords crossed between their breasts. Six left, thought Tomoe.

  One of the brothers’ cuts had been close enough to her face to sheer off part of the letter she’d carried in her teeth. She quickly found where the other piece had fallen and held the parts together. A vagrant dart of moonlight escaped the prison of clouds and lit the garden. In this light Tomoe was able to see that the letter was actually one of Ich ’yama’s infamous poems. It read:

  From her crimson sheath

  a white-feathered arrow flies West

  Empty dreams of love!