“I am glad that I was of use to you,” Tomoe said, and truly it provided her a sense of tremendous relief to know her trip into the Lands of Roots and Gloom had been of some avail. In the warm evenings, Tsuki sat half-clad, unashamed of the scarred half of her face and body where Tomoe was concerned. Tomoe added, “But the oni devil lurks among the grasses outside the sangoya, and you rarely show the whole of your face to others. Perhaps I was of less use than a better life required.”
Tsuki sat in the dim moonlight filtering through the rice-paper window. She coddled Tomoe’s child, for Tomoe did not wish to do so. Her lame leg could not be folded beneath herself, so her position was informal, one leg sticking out and the other held close to herself. Tiny baby hands reached up and stroked the ruined part of Tsuki’s face; her own hand, the one with crooked fingers, touched the child’s face in turn.
“We must each of us bear our scars and devils,” said Tsuki. “It is not so hard for me.”
Often, in those few days with Tsuki, Tomoe was set to considering her own scars and devils, evaluating her sense of failure, confronting her personal and varied guilts and easing them away, planning what she would do with her future, arranging in her mind the pieces of her life. She weighed her widowhood with Tsuki’s lifelong chastity; it was discussed until they had no more to say. Tomoe’s reluctant motherhood was compared to Tsuki’s quick maternalism. Each considered their past acts, sometimes inconsequential, sometimes ferocious, often of doubtful intent or outcome. In some of these things it was decided that Tomoe was the stronger, and in other things they agreed Tsuki was the most able to cope. Their weaknesses and faults, strengths and positive attributes, tended to balance one another: where Tomoe was uncertain, Tsuki felt secure; where Tsuki was confused, Tomoe saw an answer. Each woman soothed the other. Toward the end of that week together, they realized they were more alike than not, different as their lives might be.
“Have you thought to cut your hair?” Tsuki asked in the middle of one night, suggesting that Tomoe be a nun. “You said you feared to be like Okumi, the nun who told you of the Golden Naginata; but not all sects require seclusion, as I myself am evidence. You could be komuso, a wandering mendicant. Then it would cause Wada Yoshimora a loss of face to pursue you, for what pious man could lust for Buddha’s woman? Also, it would cause people to say, ‘How strong she is, to give up her family and retire from worldly things.’ Whereas, if you continue to pursue the fame of a samurai, people will say, ‘How wicked to abandon her sweet child like that.’”
“I have thought these very things,” confessed Tomoe. “It is a dilemma for me. Were I to cut my hair as many widows do, surely it would be an affront to any Buddha whenever I might pray, for it would be the Thousands of Myriads I addressed instead of Him. Also, though I would be judged better to have abandoned this child for a holier life, than if I abandoned him for continued fame as a warrior, still in my own heart I would have to cope with what I had really done—that is, failed to love him. Few will know of my child in any event, so there is only me to judge myself. All that I have known is bushido, and I think I will continue to pursue the Way, and try never to regret the things I have lost or left behind.”
“Forgive my trying to choose your path,” said Tsuki, lowering her face. “Only you can know what is best for you.”
On the last day in the sangoya, there was a “Going Out” celebration with several grandmothers, three menstruating peasants, the red nun, and the sangoya’s midwife: Shan On. Tomoe was embarrassed by it, and felt dishonest clad in peasant cottons, holding her child as a loving mother might. She forced herself to smile and tried to show that, yes, she felt gratitude to these women, although throughout the twenty days she had been mostly rude or despondent.
It was early afternoon when she, Shan On, Tsuki, and the unnamed child left the last ashes of burnt bedding by the river and walked toward Shan On’s house by Shigeno Valley Cemetery. Tomoe handed the child to Tsuki, and did not look at him during the short trek. To the side of the road, the oni devil hid, followed, curious and jealous of the way Tsuki cooed to the baby.
The women and child arrived at the house by the cemetery. There, Shan On made bitter tea, which fitted the occasion, and there was trust and relaxation while they sat together. After a while, Tomoe traded the peasant cottons from the sangoya for her hakama trousers and haori waistcoat, which Shan On had kept. She bowed to her swords and apologized to them for more than twenty days of neglect. There was, among the things Shan On had kept for Tomoe, the carved wooden sheath of the Golden Naginata.
“Shan On,” said Tomoe, “you may already know that this sheath was long kept by your mother. It has been passed along to me, but my path will be difficult, and I can guard no possessions beyond my swords. I do not think I would be remiss to let you keep the sheath safe for me, or for the next hero of Naipon who needs it for some cause.”
The white nun received the sheath with pleasure, and ran slender fingers over the carved surface, sensing it was a holy and magic thing.
“Have you decided about the child,” asked Shan On, who had not been privy to six days of conversations between Tomoe and Tsuki Izutsu.
“He has been discussed,” said Tomoe, looking quickly to the bundle in Tsuki’s arms. “There are wet nurses in the Castle. They attend the babes of vassals’ wives. Tsuki will take my child to Madame Shigeno, who is not the sort to marry, and so requires an heir by adoption. Only she need know the boy’s parentage.”
“You can do this?” asked Shan On.
“You know I can,” said Tomoe.
“Do you know that Wada Yoshimora has put guards and spies along the roads out of this valley? His informants knew that you visited the Castle many months ago, and, though you were turned away, none saw you leave the valley.”
“Tsuki mentioned it to me,” said Tomoe.
“How will you escape?”
“You have returned to me my swords,” said Tomoe.
“There is another way,” said Shan On, not liking the promise of more violence. “I will go into the castle-town where samurai live, and cause a rumor to be spread through the gay district. The rumor will be that you are hiding in some storage house behind an inn. The nearest men serving Wada Yoshimora are those who guard Hisa Yasu bridge, over the north forest river. They will be first to respond to the rumor and search the storage houses. At dusk, you will be able to slip over the bridge and away from Shigeno Valley without interference.”
“If you would be so daring,” said Tomoe, “I will accept your plan.”
“I will go at once,” said Shan On. “The summer days are long; I have several hours to plant false information here and there. Please do not be anxious, but wait until the sun is low.”
“Do not worry about me after this,” aaid Tomoe Gozen. “And do not let yourself be detected as my friend.”
Tsuki stood in the open doorway, watching the white nun walk the path through the cemetery, off toward the castletown surrounding Shigeno Castle. Tsuki held Tomoe’s child in the crook of one arm, and her walking staff was held in her other hand.
“You must go also,” said Tomoe. Tsuki stepped out of the cottage without looking back, but asked softly,
“Will we meet each other soon?”
Tomoe did not answer. Tsuki Izutsu limped down the stairway from Shan On’s house to the graveyard. It was important for the two nuns not be seen together, but Tsuki must use the same route through the cemetery, toward Shigeno Castle. There, by whatever means necessary, she would gain admittance to the castle, and audience with Madame Shigeno. Already, her desire went ahead of her, influencing the thoughts of guards who might otherwise stand in her way, sending Madame Shigeno herself a priming message of curiosity about a nun-in-red and something she would bring. This ability to “pave the way” was but one of Tsuki’s half-realized magicks.
At the foot of the steps, at the edge of the cemetery, Tsuki Izutsu turned around and looked up at the doorway to Shan On’s house. But Tomoe Gozen was not sta
nding there, did not watch Tsuki go, did not say goodbye to the nameless child. It was best this way.
In the solitude of the cedar-shaded house of Shan On, Tomoe groomed herself in preparation for the road. She brushed her long hair, retied it at the nape of her neck, and completed other cleansing rituals. She had done these things earlier in the day for the Going Out ceremony at the sangoya; but it was necessary to observe the etiquette of grooming before any important venture. As she performed these personal chores, she meditated on a variety of subjects, and viewed herself as from an objective plane. Some of her thoughts were of the child. Only three besides herself would know about him; but this was best for his survival, not some dread secret of her own, kept lest she suffer the judgements Tsuki had described.
Outside, it was so warm that no bird wanted to sing. There was no wind, so no branches were stirring. The silence comforted Tomoe.
Inside her haori jacket, near her belly, was a small bundle of provisions for the road, which Shan On had prepared in advance. Among the various small items was a funeral tablet upon which was printed in tiny letters the death-names of the shi-tenno, including her own brother, and above these four names were slightly larger characters: Kiso Yoshinake’s title, Rising Sun General. Tomoe removed this object from her jacket and placed it on the floor in front of her. It was smaller than most such tablets, for it was intended especially for travel. She spoke to this tablet a long while, as though her husband and the Four Great Men were truly with her. She told them about the things which had transpired of late, and of her immediate plans.
Thus, in meditation, prayer, and private ceremony, the afternoon passed more quickly than she had thought possible, and dusk approached its verge. Tomoe Gozen closed up Shan On’s house and started through the cemetery, lingering a moment by the monument raised to Madoka Kawayama and Ushii Yakushiji, the monument with the rustic god on top. Ushii’s remains now resided in this grave as long intended, beside his life-long friend Madoka. Tomoe did not speak to them, but she bowed slowly and held her bow several extra moments. Then she lifted her face to the sky, no tear evident, and started off toward the north forest.
As she went along the highway—boldly, as though she were not a hunted woman—it did not seem that she was beginning something new, but drawing out an end. She wondered if there could be anything unexpected in her life from here on. Although she had made her decision to adhere to the Warrior Way, what additional fame could she achieve by this means? She had risen higher, and fallen further, than any woman or man of Heida, and the folk of her hometown, and all Naipon, could never sing her praises louder than today. Fame was a hollower reward than she had long imagined; the greatest pride was yet too small a thing to see or touch. Now, to continue in the only thing she had ever known did not enrich her mood, but made her feel as though she were a gaki spirit, a hungry ghost wandering the Eternal Isles unreconciled. Truly, she had been ready to die at Awazu at her husband’s side; it was as though she were already dead. Though her sorrow and guilt had been mostly healed by the time spent with Tsuki, and she felt no regrets, neither did she feel as intense about life as she had felt in other times. She did not believe she could ever regain that sense of energetic action.
The road rose steeply out of the valley, leading through thick forests. The warm breeze raised dust to annoy her. Sunset’s colors faded into grey. She did not know what waited outside Shigeno Valley, what was worth achieving. It wore upon her to consider the samurai Way might be, just possibly, a thing of vanity, not holiness. How could she dare nurture such a thought? Surely it was only herself that was vain.
She heard the roar of the river before she saw the waters. Then she saw the high, wooden bridge. Shan On’s plan had worked, for none of Wada Yoshimora’s men waited for her there. But there was someone else: the black-robed yamahoshi outcast Makine Hei, standing in the center of the bridge, a straw hat like an inverted bowl upon his head. He was fully armed with sword and iron-reinforced pilgrim’s staff, and blocked her chosen route with his huge bulk. Tomoe did not break her stride until she reached the beginning of the bridge, and there she stopped. Upon her visage, there was no emotion. His face was hidden beneath the brim of his large hat. Tomoe asked,
“How could you have known that I would come?” There was less query than resignation in her tone.
The sorcerer-priest untied his hat and tossed if off the bridge; it spun, descending to the rapids far below. Makine Hei’s deep, resonant, unmodulated voice replied: “I had lost you for a while, but have watched you closely these last six days.”
Now Tomoe did register surprise. In fact, she seemed upset. She knew that Makine Hei could not have been lurking near the sangoya, so what he told her meant one thing:
“You can still see through the eyes of my friend Tsuki Izutsu.”
Makine Hei turned his head from side to side, and Tomoe was visibly relieved by his negative reply. “The oni,” he explained. “I can see through his eyes. Would you like for me to tell you what he is seeing now?”
“No,” said Tomoe, wishing no news of Tsuki’s venture to the Castle. She said evenly, “What you tell me means you know about my child, and your magic still is close enough to Tsuki that you might cause her harm if she is unwary. For these two reasons, I should kill you if I can. But I remember you as Goro Maki, as dear to me as my own brother who has died. I cannot believe you are only Makine Hei, a wicked shugenza, evil man of sorcery. That is why I ask you, let us put aside our grudges here at Hisa Yasu Bridge. Hisa Yasu means ‘everlasting peace,’ and it is proper for us to each forgive the other at a bridge so named.”
Makine Hei’s terrible visage seemed almost to soften, but only for a moment. Tomoe put foot to bridge and began to approach the shugenza. He said,
“You are a fool to attempt placating me this way. You have not suffered the indignity of a clerical life, but have wallowed in recognition for your deeds. I will never change my mind.”
Still, she approached. The man of sorcery did not draw his sword, nor raise his shakubo, the fighting stick with ringed shaku at its tip. Tomoe recognized the shaku as the one once belonging to bonze Shindo, the monk she had beheaded at Kiso Yoshinake’s command, and who Makine Hei had loved as a son.
She stopped in front of him, close enough to be smitten by the shakubo if Makine Hei wished to try. Shindo, though unjustly slain, still would not approve his shaku being used to strike Tomoe.
“Goro,” Tomoe whispered, hoping to awaken his old self. In reply, Makine Hei began to hum a note so low Tomoe barely heard it; but she felt it sure enough. She staggered back, clutching between her breasts, for her heart felt as though it had been snatched in a tightening fist. She fell at once upon her knees, groaning, unable to catch a breath. She looked up into the face of Makine Hei, her foe, and could find no trace of Goro Maki, her friend. She tried to speak to him anew, but could force no word from her convulsing lungs. The deep sound made in Makine Hei’s throat and diaphragm intensified, and she could hear it better, and feel it more painfully. His kiaijutsu was perfected; clearly he could kill her with his voice. She wondered if it were necessary to do it slowly due to some limitation, or if he drew it out only because his cruelty exceeded vengeance. Surely he lengthened it out of cruelty, for she was nearly helpless, and he might at least have drawn sword to end it mercifully, but did not. She would like to think better of him than this, to believe it took his entire concentration to achieve this much, and that was why he could not use the sword to end her torture.
She tried to stand, then tried again. The sound was a weight upon her shoulders. She managed to find her feet, staggered toward the railing of the bridge. Makine Hei turned his mountainous self in order to continue directing the killing sound her way. He seemed to need no breath.
Soon she was blinded, or at least could see no more than vague shadow. Her fingers pained her, like a rheumatic old woman. Yet she clenched one hand around the hilt of her longsword and lurched toward the sound Makine Hei was making, drawing her s
word in a rapid, even arc. The sound ended suddenly and she staggered halfway to the end of the bridge before she found her vision. Makine Hei was behind her; she turned in time to stop him striking with the shakubo. Only then did she see that she had clipped his beard in her rush, and more, cut into the throat itself to still the awful sound, to free herself from the blinding agony. Yet he pursued her with the pilgrim’s staff. Blood flowed down the front of the shugenza’s robe; Makine Hei was a crimson fountain. Yet he was still breathing, through the neck’s gash and not through mouth or nose. Blood would fill his lungs eventually, so he would not breathe for long; but in the meantime, his throat burbled a sickening froth, and he refused to abandon the fight.
A blow to her head was averted by her sword, and when he struck again, her sword came down and cut the shaku loose from the staff. It was the only amends she could make to Shindo, who would not want to be involved in this.
Makine Hei drew steel. He attacked, attacked again, and Tomoe Gozen was hard-put to block the tremendous, well-aimed cuts. His red throat smiled at her. His blood spattered across the bridge called Everlasting Peace. How long could he fight her when so badly injured? She had seen low ranking footsoldiers of mediocre training fight on and on despite mortal wounds. By contrast, Makine Hei was a highly skilled samurai capable of conserving strength, a priest with meditative skills which slowed the body’s functions, and a sorcerer into the bargain. She could not guess how long the grisly battle might endure. She was caught between a desire to deal him a merciful last blow, a reluctance to strike again the man who was once her friend, and the immediate fact that her mixed emotions became quite without pertinence when it was tough enough to keep herself alive.
The Golden Naginata Page 32