Genpei

by Kara Dalkey

  “Even such a wall as theirs may have cracks, Lord Kiyomori. The Fujiwara are like a wall of old stone, too long set in place without repair. They are masters of form and manners, but have forgotten the meaning of it. They sit in their precious capital and think it is the whole world, forgetting the countryside that surrounds them. And we fear they are forgetting the honor due to us as they chant sutras to their beloved bosatsu and Buddhas.”

  Benzaiten stirred the water more forcefully with her fingers. “My father has forseen dark days ahead. But he has grown fond of mortal humanity and wishes to ease its passage through the turbulent times to come. My father seeks the right man to captain the Empire, to steer it safely past the maelstroms of fate that await it. He believes you may well be that man, Lord Kiyomori.”

  Realizing that he was being offered a chance rarely given, and that his newfound heritage proved him worthy, Kiyomori felt a great pride and ambition fill him. “Then your father has chosen wisely, great Benzaiten. Tell me what I must do, how might I find this crack and achieve the fate you see for me.”

  “We will give you our aid, if you will promise, once power is yours, to build for me on the sacred island of Miyajima the greatest shrine the Empire has yet seen. Then you shall have my favor, and that of my father, the Dragon King. Do this, become our champion, and with your skill, courage, and wisdom we will see that your clan achieves great glory and that your name is remembered throughout the ages to come.”

  “Glory,” Kiyomori whispered, as though speaking to a lover. “You will have your shrine on Miyajima, Great Lady. The grandest the Empire has ever seen. I swear this to you.”

  “Very good. And you shall take this color”—she gestured toward the red sail—“as the color of your clan’s standard in battle, for battles there will be, Lord Kiyomori, great and terrible ones. But you will prevail, if you will but follow our advice.”

  Kiyomori gripped the railing of the boat so hard that it nearly splintered in his hands. “I will do as you ask, Great Lady. Everything.”

  “Your fervor impresses me, Kiyomori-san. You will receive more messages from us soon. I eagerly await the day I will see my shrine. Until that happy time, farewell.” The red sail suddenly billowed with an unseen wind. The dragon boat with its three lady passengers sailed away into the mist and vanished.

  Kiyomori turned to his men. “Have I just seen what I have seen and heard what I have heard?”

  The men turned to him, wide-eyed. One of them said, “Indeed, my lord, that could only have been the kami Benzaiten herself! She is even lovelier than all the paintings I have ever seen of her. Our clan is truly fortunate, my lord, to receive her favor, as well as that of the great Dragon King.”

  The fog that was all around them melted away faster than the last snowfall of spring, revealing the wide-open sea once more. The sacred island of Miyajima could be seen on the southeastern horizon. A gentle breeze arose and billowed the sails of the ship. “Let us eat this gift, the white fish,” said Kiyomori. “And dream on the great things to come. And then let us sail on to the shrines of Miyajima to honor the kami who have blessed us with this vision.”

  A Path of Dragon Lights

  It was late afternoon when Kiyomori’s boat at last came alongside the tiny dock at the sacred island of Miyajima. They had found no pirates that day. Perhaps it was just as well, for Kiyomori had been distracted by the prophecies of Benzaiten and the glory they promised, so much so that he could hardly think clearly.

  Three Shintō priests in black caps and white robes were coming down the steep mountain path to the shore. They looked up in astonishment and concern when they saw a boat full of armored warriors tying up at their dock.

  “Do not fear, Holy Ones!” shouted Kiyomori as he jumped into the shallow water and strode up the rocky shore. “I am Taira no Kiyomori, Assistant Commander of the Military Guards. I have this day received a vision of the kami Benzaiten, and I come to this, her sacred island, for offering and contemplation. She has directed me to one day build a great shrine for her here, and I wish to study the site on which I will build.”

  The priests’ eyes opened wide, and they bowed low to him. “Then you are most welcome to Miyajima and our shrines, Kiyomori-san. Your fame is well-known even on these humble shores. We ask only that you disturb no rock nor living creature while you are here, and that you do not spend the night, for even we do not stay upon the island, but have our homes elsewhere. For by night, the island belongs to the kami, and no mortal may disturb it.”

  “It shall be so,” said Kiyomori, inclining his head to them. “Wait here, on the boat, for me,” he directed his men. “I must walk and think a while.”

  He saw the warriors mutter concerned words among themselves. It was getting late, and no sailor liked to navigate the Inland Sea by night, for the myriad tiny islands and rocks made the sailing treacherous. But Kiyomori knew his men well—their skill on the sea was matchless, and they would obey him bravely.

  The three priests got into their little rowboat and rowed away with cries of farewell. Kiyomori first walked up the steep hill path to the shrines of the daughters of the Dragon King. His family had come to visit these shrines before, and he remembered being there as a child once. But the memory was faint, and now he saw the shrines with wiser eyes.

  The thatch-and-stick structures blended so well with the bushes and trees surrounding them that Kiyomori at first overlooked them. The shrines were clearly well cared for, the dirt paths were swept and the thatch in good repair, but the structures were also clearly very old and primitive. Kiyomori did not perform the ritual washing of hands and mouth, or enter the shrines themselves. “No wonder Benzaiten has asked for a new shrine,” he murmured to himself. “Surely she deserves finer than these.”

  Kiyomori descended the path again to the rocky shore and walked by the strand. Tame deer who nibbled grasses nearby bowed their heads to him as he passed. He walked for a long time, wondering what sort of shrine to build, which inlet or rocky outcropping might be pleasing to incorporate into the holy grounds, for the setting of a proper shrine should inspire a certain awe in the viewer to properly honor the kami. He could not keep his mind from drifting, however, to what it would be like to be Chancellor, what he would do with the power.

  He walked until the sky above turned crimson, the color of Benzaiten’s sail. The ripples of the sea reflected this, and it seemed as though a thousand red war banners waved just beneath the water’s surface.

  A few yards out, framing the setting sun, a torii of two upright logs stood out of the water, spanned by a length of twisted rope as thick as a man’s waist. From the weathering on the wood and the rope, this, too, was clearly very old. Kiyomori imagined what he would put in its place: a grand torii of cypress wood, with two elegant curved crossbeams, all painted scarlet in the Chinese style. And the shrine itself would be here, on the shore, not hidden away on the mountain slope. And the shrine would also be of cypress, and would resemble the palace of the Dragon King himself. Or as close as could be known, for very few mortals who visited the palace of Ryujin ever returned.

  As he turned to continue walking, he thought he saw a lumpy, shapeless mass lying on the shore just where the waves’ edge touched the rocks. Perhaps it is seaweed, he thought, or driftwood, or flotsam from some unfortunate ship. But when he came closer, he saw it was none of those at all, but a woman lying there. Kiyomori ran and crouched beside her, uncertain as to whether it would be proper to touch her. She was wearing the elegant robes of those who serve at the Imperial Court, and her hair was glossy and fine. “Madam, are you all right? Can you hear me?”

  Her eyes opened, and she smiled. Her teeth had been darkened with berry stain, in the high-court fashion, and her eyebrows had been shaved and her face powdered white. She sat up but did not hide her face behind her sleeves or act with the accustomed coy shyness expected of a lady. “Ah, Kiyomori-san, it is you. I have been awaiting you.”

  “You … you have? Who are you? How do you come
to be here? Did you fall off a boat?”

  She laughed. “Of course not. I have been sent here by my father, the Dragon King. You might call me Shishi, although perhaps that speaks too much of death. Call me Tokiko, then. You have met some of my half sisters already. One of them is Benzaiten, whom you met earlier today. As this is our sacred island, we hear your thoughts as you tread upon its stones. My father is pleased that you choose to be our ally. He has sent me to become your principal wife, so that I may assist and guide you.”

  Kiyomori gaped, for she was quite the most elegant girl he had ever seen. “Then your esteemed father gives me a far greater gift than I deserve.” He took her by the elbows and helped her stand, for her kimonos were many-layered and heavy. He noticed with amazement that they were dry.

  “Perhaps,” said Tokiko. “But Father knows mortals are frail, and he wishes to be certain of your success.” She took Kiyomori’s arm boldly, as if they were already well acquainted. “He wishes me to remind you often that you must be ruthless in war, yet moderate in government.”

  Kiyomori frowned and smiled at the same time. “But what warrior does not know these things? They are basic as where to place an arrow on the bow before one shoots, or how to announce one’s name before battle in order to find a worthy foe to fight.”

  “Nonetheless,” said Tokiko, “my father has learned that mortals can become forgetful. Or be misled. I am sent to see that this does not happen.”

  Kiyomori laughed and shook his head. “Why your father sends a woman to advise a warrior bewilders me.”

  Tokiko released his arm and walked a few steps ahead of him. “Because a woman might not be overcome with zeal, as a man may be, and she may see things he may not. Besides, you will not always be only a warrior. If you are to be accepted as an equal at the Imperial Court, there is much you must learn.”

  Kiyomori remembered the slights and condescending remarks of the nobles of Heian Kyō. How they made him feel unworthy of their company. How clumsy and ignorant he felt in their presence. And yet I am of royal blood—their equal if not their better by heritage. If I could but learn the arts and manners to prove it to them. “There is something in what you say, Tokiko-san.”

  “Of course. I can teach you and your sons the courtly ways you must know.”

  “That will be … did you say sons?”

  “Yes. I will bear you many. And they will become renowned for their courtliness and martial ability. And daughters whom you may place in advantageous marriages.”

  “Ah. Yes. That would be … most worthwhile, Tokiko-san.” Kiyomori imagined the astonishment that would be on the courtiers’ faces if he and his family entered the capital and behaved with the same graces, manners, and talents as they. “Again, I thank your father for this most undeserved gift.”

  Tokiko again walked a few steps on, then turned her head coyly back toward him. “There is … one request my father would make. A small thing.”

  Kiyomori walked toward her. “He may ask anything, my lady.”

  “Anything? Well, then. I trust you have heard of that which bears the name Kusanagi … Grass-cutter?”

  Kiyomori stopped. “Kusanagi? What warrior cannot know the name of the Imperial Sword? It is only one of the three most sacred objects of the realm.”

  “Good. Then perhaps you know it was my father who made it.”

  “There are legends which say so, Tokiko-san.”

  “They are true. But the sword was swallowed by Orochi, one of the dragons of the sea. Perhaps you have heard that this dragon was slain by Susano-wo, the god of storms and earthquakes, and Susano-wo found the sword in the dragon’s tail. Susano chose to give the sword to a mortal he favored, a certain Yamato Takeru, who gave it the name Kusanagi. But that was long, long ago. My father is patient and forgiving and has allowed the sword to stay in mortal hands for a time. But Ryujin sees darker days ahead for mortalkind, and fears the sword may be used for dire purposes. Therefore, my father wants Kusanagi returned to him.”

  Kiyomori stepped back. “Lady, do you know what you are saying? What your father asks? I cannot possibly steal the Sacred Sword—”

  “Who said anything about stealing?” said Tokiko. “Those of Imperial blood may handle Kusanagi. My father has foreseen that one of Imperial blood will return the sword to him. Did we not tell you that you are an Emperor’s son? When you are Chancellor, and grandfather to an Emperor, who is to say what you may do?”

  “But I could not … did you say grandfather to an Emperor?”

  “Oh, did my sister not tell you? One of the daughters I will bear you will marry a prince. She will bear a son. Thereby you may become grandfather to an Emperor.”

  “An Emperor of the Taira blood,” Kiyomori whispered. “Surely there is no greater possible glory for my clan than this.”

  “Surely,” said Tokiko, smiling.

  “And I must only return the sword?”

  “Only that.”

  “And that is but a small thing. For so many blessings.”

  “So it is.”

  Kiyomori rubbed his face. “So. Then. There can be no reason to refuse such an offer, neh?”

  “Surely, none.” Tokiko stretched out her hand to him.

  Kiyomori stepped toward her, his footing on the wet stones uncertain. She caught his sleeve and led him into the deepening twilight.

  It was full night when they reached the Taira ship. The slivered moon only dimly outlined its shape against the water.

  “Lord Kiyomori, is that you?” called a man from the deck.

  “It is I, with another. A lady who will travel with us.”

  “My lord … is that wise?”

  “Did you bring more women for the rest of us?” grumbled another man.

  Kiyomori said, “You will be respectful to this woman, for she is a daughter of the Dragon King and half sister to Benzaiten. And she is to be my wife.”

  After a pause, the first man said, “Then I humbly apologize, my lord and lady, for my ill-spoken words. Pray be welcome aboard. But I ask your permission, Lord Kiyomori, to let some of us gather wood on the island so that we may make torches to light our way. The night is dark, and there are many rocks nearby.”

  “No!” said Tokiko to Kiyomori. “This island is a sacred place. You must take nothing from it. I will provide the light your men need.”

  Kiyomori helped Tokiko onto the ship, though she seemed to be able to find her way in the dark. The warriors and sailors stepped back from her, respectful yet wary, as she stepped gracefully along the deck to the stern. There she took from her sleeve a small conch shell. She blew into it, producing notes as clear and sweet as those any flute would make.

  Within moments, glimmering lights appeared just below the surface of the water, glowing pale green and blue. Kiyomori sucked in his breath. He had heard the sailors call these dragon lights when they appeared on warm summer evenings. Some said they were reflected glimmerings of the lights of Ryujin’s palace beneath the sea. Fishermen said they were kami lights borne on the backs of the squid who swim there. But whatever the source, the lights that Tokiko had summoned now arranged themselves into a glowing, watery road that led from the dock of Miyajima clear across the Inland Sea.

  “There,” said Tokiko. “Now you may sail in safety along the path my father has lit for you.”

  The warriors and sailors whispered in awe and hurried to make the sails ready. Kiyomori bowed to her, and said, “Truly, if I ever had doubt of you, it has all vanished.”

  “That is good,” said Tokiko. “Trust in what I say, keep your bargains, and your success will be assured.”

  The Jeweled Throne

  At the time of Kiyomori’s birth, there ruled a young Emperor of Nihon by the name of Toba. Toba’s rule, it was said, conformed with the Original Vow of Abounding Mercy, and he had been a benevolent and wise Emperor. But he was also very shrewd, as well as ambitious.

  How might an Emperor be ambitious, the humble listener might ask? Does he not reign suprem
e, descended as he is from the gods? So it is said. But matters were not so simple in those latter days of the Heian Kingdom as they had been in earlier, more elegant times.

  As Kiyomori knew, it was the Fujiwara clan and their related and supporting families who truly pulled the strings of government in the capital of Heian Kyō. For centuries, they had been marrying their daughters into the Imperial family and thereby arranging for Fujiwara to be given the best promotions and governmental posts. By founding temples and shrines, both Buddhist and Shintō, and making large donations, the Fujiwara had the support of nearly all the monks and priests of any importance. And they became the arbiters of culture as well, encouraging the study of arts such as music and calligraphy, until the Fujiwara were seen as the pinnacle of all that was refined and noble. Under the nearly suffocating protection of the Fujiwara, the Emperor became little more than a figurehead, as subject to the Fujiwara whim as any servant.

  Emperor Toba was a scholar of history and well aware that, in times past, the Emperor had held much more power. He resolved that he would be the one to return the reins of control to the Jeweled Throne. His scheme was simple.

  It was not unknown in those times for an Emperor to retire from the throne while he still had years of healthy life left to him, assuming there was a male heir of reasonable age to take his place. It was expected that the Retired Emperor would then take the tonsure and robes of a Buddhist monk and spend his remaining years in contemplation and meditation, leaving behind the trials and cares of the material world.

  So in his twentieth year, still young and hearty, Toba retired from the throne, leaving it to be inherited by his four-year-old son, Sutoku. At first this was shocking, and the Senior Council of Nobles scrambled to find precedent for such an act. Toba pointed out that he, himself, had risen to the throne at the age of four. Although the nobles claimed that his ascension at a young age had been necessary due to his father’s death, at last the senior nobles were forced to concede that there was no reason to dispute it, and therefore had to permit Toba’s retirement to take place.