The Golden Naginata

by Jessica Amanda Salmonson

  “It is a matter of confidentiality,” said Tsuki Izutsu.

  “It might be,” said Shan On.

  “Listen to me please,” said Tsuki Izutsu, setting her bowl aside as well, and placing both hands on the floor in a beseeching posture. “As I said, sometimes I know things which I have no obvious means of knowing; yet I am rarely mistaken. Tomoe Gozen needs me. I owe her many favors and cannot let her down.”

  “Perhaps you mean to kill her with your staff,” said Shan On. “I do not have your way of ‘knowing.’ I fear the powers you seem to possess. You project your will and your emotions. I can exert myself against your will, but your emotions cause me to feel sadness and confusion. How could I trust you with a friend’s life?”

  “I owe her much,” said Tsuki Izutsu. “Once I was possessed by three devils: an oni, a naruka, and a sorcerer more wicked than the first two. Because of Tomoe Gozen, I am free of most of these monsters. I must suffer only the oni devil now. I am resigned that he is part of me, and I am part of him. Please be certain that neither myself, nor my ‘shy friend,’ mean harm to Tomoe Gozen. If you are doubtful, I will gladly allow myself to be bound in ropes, if only I may see her.”

  Outside, some creature slurped noisily at the miso on the step. Shan On ignored the sound, and said, “I am moved by what you tell me. Yet, if it were true, as you believe, that I know what became of Tomoe Gozen, wouldn’t I also know her present needs? How can you be sure she requires your presence, if I do not know it myself?”

  “I am convinced of her present unhappiness,” said Tsuki.

  “If it were so,” said the white nun, “can you easily change it? I think not.”

  “Consider these things,” said Tsuki Izutsu: “Tomoe Gozen believes her path is one of failure. She tried to help her husband in a task which could not be achieved. She tried to regain a past retainership, but was called faithless and turned away. What other things plague her with a sense of unworthiness? How much can I trust you to know? That she once set out to seek vengeance for a gaki spirit, but performed the deed so badly that the spirit still would not rest? That a tribe of Tengu devils proclaimed her protector of devil children, but her efforts in behalf of a bakemono child were of tragic outcome? That her one ‘success’ as far as she can see was to convince a psychotic samurai to return to this cemetery and throw himself upon the sword of his own best friend? There is more than this, too! Subconsciously she knows that it was her own awkwardness that awoke the Earthquake Catfish, killing thousands. And she hurt you as well, killing your white dog out of sheer ignorance.”

  “None of these things justify Tomoe Gozen’s self-doubt!” said Shan On, sounding angry for the first time; and as Shan On’s anger was rare, perhaps it was because she believed Tomoe Gozen should feel guilt for some of these things.

  “Yet she does have doubts,” Tsuki stated firmly. “She needs to know she has not failed at everything. I am her one success.”

  Tsuki Izutsu stood abruptly, hovering over the white nun, staff to hand. She said,

  “Take me to her at once!”

  “I refuse,” said Shan On, not cowering. “Attack me if you must. By your actions, I know how I should trust you. I would die rather than betray her.”

  Tsuki Izutsu raised her staff above her head and said sharply, “Judge me as you wish!”

  Near a large creek running through rice fields on the outskirts of a village in Shigeno Valley, there was a nondescript hut consisting of two rooms. It had wooden walls, two high windows covered by rice-paper, a thatched roof, and an entrance with a curtain of woven grass. Around the hut, tall grasses swayed in the afternoon’s hot, humid breeze. Shigeno Castle was not visible from this place, nor was any other important landmark or sight, which was the reason for the hut being built where it was. Called sangoya, it was a place of “women’s impurity” as far as men were concerned, and a retreat as far as women were concerned. It was by no means a secret place, for it could be found easily, were anyone interested. Yet it was never discussed around men. The sangoya was shared by peasant women while menstruating or giving birth.

  The larger, front room had a small, high window. The interior was usually dark. There were two hibachi for cooking purposes and, in cooler weather, warmth. Presently the room was stuffy; no fire was wanted; the transient residents had been eating mostly pickles, occasionally augmented with hastily made bowls of noodles. If evening were cool enough, they would make rice with red beans, the red beans symbolizing menstrual blood and believed to have magical properties. Although summer made the sangoya uncomfortable, and the single door was not large enough to allow reasonable circulation of air, the women nonetheless enjoyed themselves. Menstruation taboos provided each of them with short vacations from the drudgery of farm life. Clearly they did not view their “impurity” with much loathing, since it meant a time of rest, of gossip, of cultivating friendships with other women and helping each other, away from the auspices of men, which had its own pleasant ramifications.

  The back room was smaller and also had one window near the ceiling. A birth-rope hung from a beam. On this, a laboring woman could hold herself up as a child was being born. It was occasionally a gruesome scene of blood and shouting and clinging to the rope while an old midwife assured some frightened, sweating mother-to-be that, no, you will not die. Sometimes the mother did die, of course, but it was really quite rare, the midwives being skillful onnano-miko wise in the ways of women’s health. Usually childbirth was not a gruesome sight in the least, no more troubling than when a dog or cat gives birth. Easy birth or difficult, every mother was expected to spend twenty days in that back room, resting, recovering, getting to know her child, receiving guests, accepting gifts of food, and strictly observing this purification period. “Hut Visiting Custom” was called koyamimai; the custom was performed mainly by village grandmothers, in addition to whomever was menstruating on a given day. Grandmothers from each peasant family made fu or gluten bread for the new mothers, and thereby were not excluded from the sangoya because they no longer bore children or menstruated. By the end of twenty days, every grandmother would have visited at least once.

  There was presently only one mother in the back room. She had six days to go, then she would be declared purified, and could leave with her child. There were complications in this particular case, for the mother’s breasts had thus far refused to lactate. Wet nurses came several times a day. Everyone waited for the mother to give milk, although by now it was suspected she would remain dry.

  In the front room there were, at present, four menstruating women, including a girl who had come for the first time, who was receiving special attention as a result. They talked about the non-lactating mother, not minding that she could overhear. They worried about her and her son. They worried also about her sad state of mind. Of equal importance to the conversations was the fact that the new mother was not a peasant. They did not know who she was exactly. They suspected she was of the kugé or royal class, outcast for some reason during last year’s wars in and around Kyoto. They were wrong to think her kugé, for she was buké or military calss; but without weapons, no one could be expected to realize this.

  She was Tomoe Gozen, who Shan On had sheltered for many months, until time to come to the sangoya.

  Someone might have guessed the woman’s actual identity, except that no one who asked about Tomoe Gozen had suspected she carried Kiso Yoshinake’s child; so the connection was difficult to make. The women speculated that the mother was some princess instead of a warrior, and invented romantic nonsense to appease their own curiosities. They could not discuss the woman outside the confines of the sangoya, for occurrences inside these walls were customarily discussed nowhere else (if the mystique of the sangoya were ever broken, and menstrual taboos no longer observed, it would mean only that women were given no vacations whatsoever). Every woman in the village was aware of the fact that someone of probable importance reposed in their sangoya, but no man of the village had a single clue. Peasant women
kept little from their husbands, fathers, brothers … but the sangoya was a special exception. Therefore ancient customs provided much security for Tomoe Gozen.

  Tomoe’s bed was made of two kinds of straw and a grass mat atop this. Once a week, the bedding was burned by the riverside and new bedding prepared for her. This was part of the post-childbirth purification. Although she did not feel the need to remain on her back the full twenty days, custom was demanding in this regard, so when she had visitors, she remained prone.

  At the moment, a wet nurse fed the boy who had not yet been named. The wet nurse was a well-meaning woman who encouraged Tomoe with such words as, “Do not worry, you will be able to feed him soon,” without the least realization that Tomoe did not care whether or not she lactated. The peasant was not sensitive enough to see maternalism was not strong in this one woman, preferring to believe the new mother’s melancholy was the fault of her milklessness.

  A grandmother from the village came to the back room of the hut, offering pleasant banalities and toothless smiles. She had brought more of the bland fu which Tomoe ate with small gratitude. In the other room, young women chattered like squirrels. Outside, the creek babbled, too. Tomoe could find little to say to either the wet nurse or the grandmother, so they kept each other company instead of her, and Tomoe was glad enough to be ignored.

  To be sure, Tomoe had mixed feelings about her offspring. Months earlier, when she first admitted she carried Yoshinake’s child, she was pleased to think some part of her husband would survive him. As for Tomoe’s own family line, there were cousins enough to sustain it. But Yoshinake’s clan was being systematically rooted out and exterminated by the Shogun’s spies. This one progeny alone went undetected.

  It did not mean she relished the prospect of motherhood. There were moments when she was alone with the child, forced to cradle him lest he cry, when she knew years of this would be appalling. Blessedly, he slept almost constantly during his first weeks of life. The sangoya was warm as the womb, and the boy might be unaware that he was out into the world.

  Her feelings caused her to feel badly about herself. She was not callous toward the child, but could not help her aloofness from him. Whatever instinctual attachment mothers must have for their own babies was missing from Tomoe Gozen. She doubted this was a natural response, but it was her natural response. She simply did not want the child.

  She was eased to know there were practical reasons to unburden herself of the infant. He must be protected from the enemies of Tomoe Gozen. If by any chance the spies of Wada Yoshimora learned that Tomoe had hidden in a peasant sangoya, they would suspect the existence of a child, who could not be left to live, to grow, to become the avenger for Kiso Yoshinake. For the child’s sake, Tomoe must disassociate herself from him. She would not become Yoshimora’s prize under any circumstance; the perverse general collected warrior wives much the way other lords collect rare swords. She must have her freedom to fight or flee as she thought best, without involving an infant in the danger.

  Wada Yoshimora had twice been to the Castle, disbelieving Madame Shigeno could have refused to reinstate Tomoe as vassal. Each time, his men had gone along the road in view of the sangoya, never thinking to search a peasant parturition hut for the well-known woman warrior. Tomoe might place herself beyond Yoshimora’s grasp forever, were she willing to cut her hair and retire from worldly matters, to be a nun. But she had her pride after all; she had often been glad of her fame; such notice was the wish of many samurai, and it was hard to give it up. Additionally, she had never been devoted to the Buddha, so it would not make her comfortable to be a Buddhist nun; and a Shinto miko was a following not easily pursued unless trained from childhood.

  The wet nurse left, leaving the child in his own straw matting. He was fed, contented, and asleep. The old peasant grandmother followed after the wet nurse, keeping up their conversation, forgetting to say goodbye to unresponsive Tomoe Gozen. Alone but for the sound of women chattering in the other room, Tomoe rose from her bed and stretched her muscles. She had never gone so long without practicing her various weapon arts. She wished Shan On would come and release her from this place, disregarding the twenty day purification time valued by the peasants.

  She stood above the sleeping child. He had been ugly the first week, red and wrinkled. Now he was as beautiful as any child could be, yet Tomoe Gozen still could not appreciate him. She said, “What shall I name you?” She had no idea. “How ironic that you should be my one success, the thing I least intended to do.” She raised her visage to the high window and saw the momentary shadow of a hawk upon the rice-paper. It made her wish, again, that she were free of motherhood’s implied vassalage, free to roam as a hawk across the mountains. Perhaps Madame Shigeno was right to mistrust Tomoe Gozen, who had come to resent servitude. She whispered to herself, “I am after all a ronin in my heart. Neither lord nor child can hold me anymore. I have grown too much, or grown too small. Whichever way, I cannot be mastered. Yet what is a samurai who cannot serve? She is nothing. She does not belong.”

  There was unexpected excitement in the other room. The menstruating women were chattering about some visitor.

  This is why Shan On began to trust Tsuki Izutsu:

  At dawn, the red nun stood above the white nun, the threatening posture momentarily convincing Shan On that her visitor meant harm. But Tsuki Izutsu meant to be judged by everything she was, and everything she had ever been, and by her power opened up her mind to an unprepared Shan On. They were not memories per se that Shan On saw; she did not come out of Tsuki’s mind having witnessed death and ascent from Emma’s Hell, for instance; nor had she experienced Tsuki’s mind as a series of dissertations on the nature of herself. Rather, what she touched was the essence of the red nun, stumbling over scars which held together the old Tsuki and the new Tsuki, the old with gentle humor and the new with constant pain both physical and emotional. The leg, how it hurt. The love of all things living, how it ached and washed pale. The fear of shadows, how it welled then ebbed away. The part of her that wished only to destroy, how shallow that part was, how insincere. In a moment, Shan On was free of Tsuki’s bared self; surely to have been smitten by the red nun’s staff would have been less painful. Shan On gasped air as though she had run a dozen miles. She looked up from where she sat upon her knees, up into the one visible eye of Tsuki Izutsu, the eye shining in the dimly lit room.

  “How could I have known?” Shan On whispered, uncertain what it was she knew.

  Tsuki Izutsu did not pity herself, and Shan On would not pity her either. The nun in white robe and yellow hood felt, instead, a fierce admiration for the spirit that bore so much and yet was unbroken.

  At the same time Shan On knew that she was dealing with a woman capable of natural, raw sorcery. Could she have fabricated and projected this admiration and the emotional peaks and valleys, convinced by means of hypnotism that Shan On had seen the furthest edges of Tsuki’s heart and mind? It was a thing to be considered. Shan On had been raised by a miko, a Shinto priestess, and it had been the shame of Shan On that there had been no natural sorcery in her, nothing to be trained and honed. Were it the red nun the priestess had raised and tutored, what a great prophetess and healer Tsuki would have been!

  “As you are wise enough not to pity me,” said the red nun in a surprisingly gentle voice, “be kind to yourself as well, and spare no envy.”

  It was true she had experienced a moment’s envy, for what would Shan On have given to have pleased her aged guardian before the old miko died. As it were, the priestess on her deathbed told her, “You are not intended to be a Shinto priestess, for your mother is a Buddhist nun, who sends that other pantheon to watch over you with care.” How sad a day it was! To lose one mother and regain another. Shan On’s faith ran too deep for her to abandon the Shinto gods, but she took a yellow hood in honor of her blood-mother, and honored simultaneously the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas. What Shan On lacked in supernatural ability she made up for by her wonderful capacity
for faith in gods of all sorts. It rendered her an admirable exorcist, though she could not conjure, and she had become a foremost advocate of shinto-ryobu, the Two Ways of the Gods.

  “As you have seen my spirit,” said Tsuki Izutsu, shattering the silence once more, “so have I entered the door of your most quiet existence. Please believe that we do understand one another perfectly.”

  Shan On was much older than her ageless face implied, and wise in her ways, if conservative. And she was trusting. If it were her own life at stake, she would not hesitate; but it was the fate of Tomoe Gozen she was asked to give in trust. There was still the possibility of sorcery at work, breaking down her will: the same sorcery Tsuki Izutsu sent ahead of herself, to be sure Shan On made soup enough for three. The same sorcery which created that momentary, overwhelming link of minds (and had the red nun done this consciously?). Shan On considered all these things before she said,

  “I will not give absolute credence to the strength, or the weakness, you have revealed about yourself; although if what I saw was true, surely there is no greater being in this world than you. Yet I will trust you, not for what your sorcery unveiled, but for what I see with my own eyes. By your actions and your words I know that you are wounded, and I have seen this also about Tomoe Gozen. You have tried to make me understand that Tomoe needs your presence, but what I see instead is that you need hers. Perhaps, indeed, you are each the poultice the other one requires.”

  Tomoe’s last six days in the sangoya were spent with Tsuki Izutsu ever near. The daylight hours remained a nuisance of heat and interruptions from village grandmothers and menstruating women, all of them well-intending busybodies, and of a class Tomoe Gozen frankly could not relate to for long periods of time. The evenings were more pleasant, filled by endless conversations between herself and Tsuki, sharing one another’s feelings until long into the nights.