The Golden Naginata

by Jessica Amanda Salmonson

  A noodle-vendor had come up the street carrying on his back everything he needed to vend noodles. He placed the box of gear upon the ground, blew a spark into hot coals, and began to heat fresh noodles to sell to the yamabushi and whoever was bold enough to happen by. “I will pay homage to your god!” said the smiling noodle-man, and he went traipsing to the palanquin, bowing and humbling himself and saying beautiful this and beautiful that. One of the yambushi, noodles hanging from his mouth, shouted a sudden warning, “Don’t touch him, noodle-man!” It was too late. The curious peasant placed hand upon the door of the palanquin and, before a single yamabushi could stand up and hollar a second time, he fell down dead in the street. “Too bad!” the monks lamented, giving the unfortunate fellow an impromptu service. Then they hauled him and his noodle-vending box away. The Ryowa sentry took news of this event to his superiors. The chief-generals became petrified. They still refused obeisance to Ida-ten, but could not bring themselves to burn the palanquin after all; neither could they threaten the six monks. Later on, someone thought they saw the very same noodle-man spending a lot of money in a saké house; but perhaps it was the noodle-man’s twin brother, drinking to forget his loss of kin (and forgetting it quite well, judging by his laughter).

  Ida-ten inspired fear only in those whose hearts were already weakened with self-doubt. Night and day, battles raged about Kyoto, and while the troops of Kiso Yoshinake were seriously outnumbered, the hearts of his warriors were more stout, and there were good reasons for this: they were righteous men. The coming and going of Jishin-uwo’s unrest was another element in Yoshinake’s favor, as things turned out. Although the capital itself was not much damaged, a Ryowa troop in an outlying post was swallowed up entirely, and in another case badly shaken up. Since Buddhist monks were so large a part of Yoshinake’s invasion, it was possible to credibly proclaim the quakes to be the merest sampling of a holy retribution about to be visited upon the offensive clan holding the emperor in thrall. The august (and conspiring) child of Amaterasu was himself delighted by the prospects for freedom, prospects enlarged by every victory for the Knight of Kiso; therefore Go-Temmu wrote his own imperial testimony of heavenly (and hellish) intervention in behalf of the throne.

  About this time, Tomoe Gozen brought a reinforcement of three thousand additional monks, which caused still other monks to rally; and martial nuns and wanderers added a motley flavor to the units. Even peasants asked to join the conquering horde, having been over-taxed by the Ryowa, and eager to be part of such a holy mission. Still the Ryowa outnumbered their foe, for the countryside was populated by that noteworthy clan; and even so, it hardly mattered, for Yoshinake was not merely the superior tactician with excellent advisors, but also wise in psychological warfare. The harassed clan, despite claims of being the gods-favored and hereditary defenders of the imperial house, were in fact utterly dispirited by the statements of the priests and oracles and the Mikado’s own clever testimony. Consciously or not, the Ryowa accepted that supernatural disapproval had been earned by their self-serving policies.

  The defending clan, enamored of religion, aware of their own misdeeds in recent years, and believing in the aforementioned retribution they must suffer, fought not for victory, but for valorous death. This, they were allowed. The armies of the Knight of Kiso dove into the Ryowa’s superior numbers whose only wish was to die honorably and atone. A hundred battles were fought in those few days. There were heroes in each one, on both sides, whose praises would be sung in their home villages and provinces for hundreds of years to follow.

  At the Battle of Dazai, beneath the blazing sun of autumn, Nenoi Yukika, one of the shi-tenno or men most favored by Kiso Yoshinake, and most trusted, led footsoldiers and horsemen against the famous Ryowa general, Sanehire. Nenoi Yukika was a neatly bearded man of middle years who sat high upon his black horse. His armor was black, his helmet black, his visage dark and stem. His arrows were fletched with raven feathers. The heads of these arrows were shaped like big turnips which could annihilate a man’s eye then burst out the back of a skull, brains splattering in the wake. This black warrior directed the battle from the top of the hill, showing his marshal’s fan this way and that way like the fine conductor he was, sitting this whole time upon his horse, the black horse with an iron mask and horns. Then Nenoi Yukika saw General Sanehire himself entering the fray, anxious as he was to die with his brave men. But who could kill this general? Who was strong enough? How could the Ryowa hero of numerous campaigns possibly die well, when his swords were too swift to let him? Thus did the hooves of a black horse plunder the grass, leaving sod upturned behind, down and down the hillside and into the fight. General Sanehire saw General Nenoi Yukika coming, and was glad. “You are my man!” Sanehire shouted, and Nenoi Yukika answered, “You’re mine!” Sanehire was clad in red silk over red-lacquered armor, and on his helmet were the antlers of a deer. The red general and the black general met on horseback. The red general’s rust-colored horse met the black general’s night-colored horse. The steeds fought each other even as the generals fought; and when Sanehire fell, it was red on red on red, and he looked up at night above him, though it was bright of day. His last word in life was: “Excellent!” Then Nenoi Yukika cut off the brave man’s head and put it high upon a pole, saying, “Now you will be able to see how valiantly your men die! How well all of you atone!” Then the dark general began to weep because of this splendor.

  A different day, at the Battle of Fuhara, there was another proven man, who had grey in his trimmed whiskers but was younger than he looked; and his name was Tade Shimataka. He was as pale as Nenoi Yukika was dark. His armor was lacquered white. His helmet was white, and it was decorated with white pine branches. Around his shoulders was an arrow-deflecting cape which was also white. His arrows were fletched with doves’ feathers, and their points were like closed beaks. His horse was black, which made Tade Shimataka look whiter, a ghostly rider. Tade Shimataka was also one of the shi-tenno; and his most wonderful fight was against the Ryowa ally Narita Hamba. Hamba was short and bow-legged, but you could not tell so when he rode his white-satin horse. He was broad-shouldered and bull-necked and thick-armed and was said to be the foremost archer of Naipon, able to draw a bowstring which three good men would be unable to manage together. Narita Hamba was called “General Ape” by rude men who were envious, devoid of manners, or apt to deride anyone superior. To Tade Shimataka, here was the opponent of one’s life. Though they were on opposite sides of the large battlefield at Fuhara, these two men saw one another quickly. Tade Shimataka drove heel to horse and started off across the carnage to where Narita Hamba sat astride his white horse, impassive. Shimataka’s arrows sang like birds through the air, but Narita Hamba understood arrows like some men know hawks, and cannot be scratched by them. He danced his horse back and forth, avoiding every quill, so that Shimataka gave up on this and spurred his black horse faster. Slowly, the Ryowa ally drew an arrow of his own from over his shoulder. More slowly still he nocked it. The heads of these arrows were shaped like sickle moons or cross-sections of teacups. They were wide enough to wrap halfway around a neck and sharp enough to cut clear through. The first arrow was unleashed and, before it was halfway to its target, a second was close behind! It was unexpected, the second arrow, because Hamba had moved slowly at first. Lord Kiso’s marshal did not veer his horse or slow the pace or duck his head, but swept his longsword through the air and closed his eyes for a moment so that the splinters of the deflected arrow would not blind him. He swept his sword the other way, deflecting the second arrow just as quickly. Although it might be true that no finer bowman than General Hamba lived in the whole of the country, it was equally the case that Lord Kiso’s vassals were without exception masters of yadome-jitsu, arrow-stopping art. Tade Shimataka happened to be more skillful than the others. Thus Lord Kiso’s famed “General in White” upon a black horse met the black-armored white-horse Ryowa ally face to face at Fuhara, exchanging cordial greetings.

  Tade Shimatak
a’s white cape swirled about him like snow. He was himself like snow upon a black mountain. “Fight me on the ground!” said Hamba, and Kiso’s man was willing, though aware no man had ever won a grappling exercise with ape-armed Narita Hamba. They battled back and forth with pikes until Tade Shimataka’s pike was broken, and then it was sword against pike, until Hamba’s pike was broken. Hamba did not draw his sword as would be expected. Instead, he seemed to hunch down shorter than he was, his bowed legs becoming more so, then he sprang underneath Shimataka’s swinging sword to catch the arm and hold it in a vise-grip. So they grappled this way and that way and it looked as though a stout black monkey had somehow gotten hold of a piece of white cloud and was wrestling it to the ground and tying it up! Lord Kiso’s man’s arms were quickly strapped behind his back and his chances of winning became bleak. But in the wrestling, Hamba’s arrows had been scattered from his quiver, and Shimataka rolled over one of the iron arrowheads, cutting his bindings, but not letting on that he was loose. When Narita Hamba fell to strapping the legs of the cloud-colored man, one of Hamba’s own arrows was snatched from the ground and smashed against the back of his thick neck. With a second blow of the knife-edged curve of the moon-shaped arrowhead, Narita Hamba’s head and helmet fell into Tade Shimataka’s lap. Shimataka, gasping for breath, exclaimed, “A loss to our country!” Then, as Nenoi Yukika had done at the Battle of Dazai, Tade Shimataka, at Fuhara, began to weep. These two men belonging to Lord Kiso had known lives of war too long for them to fail to recognize the pathos of all things.

  Imai Kanchira on the other hand was scarcely more than a boy and for him war was new. He was so pretty that if someone ever succeeded in cutting off his head and taking it as trophy, someone else would surely say it was the head of a girl. He was the third shi-tenno, and Tomoe Gozen’s brother. The fourth shi-tenno was Higuchi Mitsu, who was not much older than Imai. The pity of things had not yet settled into their intellects, so they were filled only with the glory and wonder of their own tremendous actions, untouched by the sorrow of lost lives and of an ancient, mighty clan crushed by youthful supersession. Imai and Mitsu fought side by side and laughing, giving contradictory orders to their men by means of their marshals’ fans, causing the Battle of Shinowa to look more like a riot than an ordinary assault. The Ryowa forces were the more confused by this. With fighting on every side, it was difficult for the dying of either army to be sure they fell down facing the enemy. To fall facing away from the enemy would be construed to mean they died in cowardly retreat; but this might not be the case in confusion such as this. Higuchi Mitsu, whose faith was predominantly Buddhist, suggested that whoever fell in battle do so facing North, for Buddha died with his head to the North. Imai Kanchira, whose faith was predominantly Shinto, suggested that whoever fell in battle do so facing West, for that was the direction of Death. They laughed at their disagreement and the legion of samurai and yamabushi under their direction laughed also. There was much jesting on the field until the enemy was infected and, though routed, grinned and chortled. This is why the Battle of Shinowa is sometimes called The Happy Fight. The Ryowa army thought it a matter of honor to die in better humor than their foe; so one group of wounded, dying men got together and arranged themselves in a flower-shape; the petals their bodies formed faced in all directions. “How lovely!” cried Higuchi Mitsu, seeing the rent enemy like a red chrysanthemum on the ground. Imati Kanchira added, “They die prettier than we! Since we cannot compete, we should give up and not die at all!” Thereafter, there were no more deaths among the yamabushi and samurai led by Imai Kanchira and Higuchi Mitsu. Among the enemy, none were spared, and none ran away either, for they were having a very good time being cheerful.

  On past occasions there have been tendencies to idealize the manners of a fallen foe, since it makes the victor appear the more vigorous to defeat surprising greatness. For the sake of objectivity, in the present case, it will not go unsaid, there were cowards among the old clan. To be sure, many of them changed their names and titles to escape to far provinces and live with relatives of humble station, and were never heard from again. Others disguised themselves as servants so as not to be captured, later shaving their heads to join priesthoods of a more sedate variety than the yamabushi. Still others, sometimes in droves, petitioned Kiso Yoshinake for commissions, and he allowed them to change sides, although he never trusted them very much.

  Priest Kakumei set out one morning to prove the weakness of the foe. He was tired of these tales of Ryowa defeats which were glorious for both sides. Kakumei was a wide-built man and sometimes when he was approached by four or five friends, they would tease him by pretending not to see him there, and say to one another, “We must go around this wall!” Or, “Who put this wall up here? “His hair and beard were shaggy even for a yamabushi; and it was somewhat curly for, it was said, his grandmother was an Ainu wild-woman converted to Buddhism. On this morning when he set out, he wore no armor, maintaining that the Ryowa swords were too dull to cut his priest’s robe. Nor did he take any sword or fighting pole or axe or naginata, sure as he was that his rosary was enough to frighten off such timid warriors as he would find. In preparation, Priest Kakumei had combed his hair and beard outward on all sides, so that he looked like a black-maned lion. He combed his thick eyebrows upward so that he had an angry look without trying. He wore high wooden geta on his feet, to prove it was not necessary to have easy footing to defeat Ryowa clansmen. He fixed upon his visage a look that made his eyes seem round and sharp, and went out by himself to face the enemy. He shook his beads at the Ryowa unit, and did they run away? They certainly did! What pious fellow wouldn’t? This was a Buddhist priest! His only weapons were his beads and his awful face! Strike him down, and what could come of it, but gods’ vengeance? Priest Kakumei chased a bunch of them this direction; he chased a bunch of them that direction. Always he held his rosary in front of him, deriding them in a thunderous voice. “Stand still and fight with me, thou cravens!” But only one would do so. Priest Kakumei fell upon this one and strangled him with the rosary. He kicked another with his geta, and broke the fleeing man’s back. Another died of fright when Kakumei raised his arms, his sleeves hanging down like the wings of a black moth. It went on like this until the only one left standing on the battlefield was Kakumei, with a few corpses scattered in undignified postures. Thenceforth, when Yoshinake’s generals told tales of Ryowa valor, Priest Kakumei would shake his beads and grumble.

  On other past occasions there have been opposite tendencies to degrade the foe, to make them seem forever afraid, as they were before Priest Kakumei, or to make them seem cruel felons. By doing this, a victor wishes not to worry about becoming ill-judged for the slaughter. History will call the dead, “Too weak to live!” or else say, “Their infamy required this vengeance!” Such things must never be suggested about the dragon-circle clan. They were mighty. But they exceeded their station, and no one must do that. With some exceptions, they went down boldly. The boldest would not even consider amnesty or exile. The clan elders living in and about Kyoto and the chief-generals of the military palace were especially apt to perform seppuku before they would suffer the indignity of capture or defeat. Some might have escaped but refused to do so. Had there been hope of rallying in the future, they might have tried to live. But there would never be such a chance. Therefore they embraced self-immolation as the only acceptable behavior. Men such as these, along with their throat-pierced wives and sons and daughters, merited and received the highest funeral honors.

  Nor had Kiso Yoshinake and his famous wife been mere table-generals through all this. For, grand as were the exploits of the shi-tenno and other field marshals, and of the troops, this grandeur paled beside the significance of Lord Kiso’s and Tomoe Gozen’s conclusive surge into the capital itself. Tomoe’s white charger carried her through leaf-matted streets, and the blood of Ryowa made the leaves more gorgeous still. She slew fourteen famous generals in three days of battle—about each one a story might be told; and she sle
w lesser foes too numerous to recount. Her husband was of identical courage, despite having to retire from the field periodically to hear from spies and council, to decide tactics, to reveal his mental prowess in matters of war, and largely to bore himself with responsibilities beyond the sword. Each time he heard that Tomoe had taken another general’s life, Yoshinake spoke lavish praise, then set out to do the same, lest it seem his wife was mightier, as some said Madame Hojo was mightier than her husband who was Shogun. Did this suggest Kiso Yoshinake was envious of his wife’s fame or her strength? We shall never know for sure. He took joy in the knowledge that he and Tomoe were equally matched. Perhaps he had forgotten a battle with straw-wrapped bokens which revealed Tomoe Gozen the more prepared to die and, therefore, the greater warrior. Lord Kiso was proud of his wife, let there be no doubt. He boasted of her courage and her beauty. If she had killed fifteen famous generals and he one less, his feelings might have been otherwise. Or he might still have been glad; who is to say? The adage goes, “That which might have been was not,” while the reasonable truth is this: Kiso Yoshinake relied upon Tomoe Gozen even more than his superb shi-tenno; for one of her was equal to the four of them, and the four of them were equal to one thousand times their number.

  And was Yoshinake beautiful in battle? Ah! Upon his helmet were the horns of an ox. His armor was blue-black, the cords of it bright cobalt. His arrow-deflecting mantle was likewise blue, wrapped about his shoulders and scintillating as does the center of a flame. His arrows stood up high behind his back, fletched with blue feathers from an eagle’s underwing, the heads shaped like candles’ flames. With bow, rattan-wrapped and lacquered the same blue-black as his armor, it was said his only equal was the Ryowa ally known as “General Ape,” who now was dead, so there was no one living who could equal Yoshinake when archery was considered. He strove through the defended streets of Kyoto, breaking that defense, taking off the heads of soldiers, dashing this way and that way on his dappled grey horse, a horse called Grey Cloud Demon, whose iron mask glistened in blue hues, whose fur was like blue ash beneath the blue flame of Kiso Yoshinake. Nothing withstood the fire of the Rising Sun General and his shining Sword of Okio.