by Kara Dalkey
“Even on holy ground such as this?” asked Go-Shirakawa.
Kakushō tilted his head. “Even here. But perhaps the monks are only imagining things and these stories are of little consequence.”
Another messenger was escorted into the room, snow still clinging to his sode and helmet. He knelt and bowed low. “Former Majesty, Holy One, I bring you good news. The Taira have chased the Minomoto forces into the mountains to the east, where the snow is storming far worse than here. The rebels can surely not escape for long in such weather.”
Go-Shirakawa nodded and smiled at the messenger. “This is good news indeed. I thank you.”
Kakushō said to the monks beside the messenger, “Take him to the kitchens and give him food and drink like the others.”
When the messenger had departed, Kakushō added, “I suspect not all of the rebel forces will have fled westward. Before long, we will be seeing some of those unfortunates here, begging for sanctuary. If they do, I will have them brought to you, so that you may have the amusement of dealing with their punishment yourself.”
“That is generous of you.”
“Anything for so esteemed a guest as you. Who knows, perhaps we will be graced with the presence of the mighty Yoshitomo himself.”
Go-Shirakawa paused a moment before saying, “I doubt it. I have met the Minomoto general. He has too much fire in him, I think, to hide away in a shrine and wear monk’s robes. I expect he will eventually head back to the Kantō to try to raise more men to his banner.”
They drank their rice wine in companionable silence for a while before Kakushō said, “This victory is welcome for another reason. There are some monks here and at other temples, monks skilled in observing the heavens, who claim that we are entering the mappo, the Age of the End of the Law. It is to be marked by great calamities, the high falling low, and so forth. The fact that the Imperial will prevailed may be a sign that the astrologers’ calculations may not be entirely accurate.”
“One could hope so,” said Go-Shirakawa. One of the large bamboo blinds beside them was still rolled up so that they might look out on one of the temple gardens. The coals in the little braziers between the two men had given enough warmth for them to be comfortable. But the breeze seemed to have changed direction, and now Go-Shirakawa felt a discernible chill.
Out in the center of the garden there was a large, round white stone, almost a boulder. As snow fell upon it, the shape and shadows created the illusion of a skull staring back at Go-Shirakawa. His skin went cold, and he pulled his heavy brocade robes tighter around himself. Go-Shirakawa turned his gaze away and stared down at the sake cup in his hand. Have I drunk so much to be seeing things? He blinked and looked back at the garden. The wind had changed the shape of the snow on the stone.
Now he saw a face with sunken cheeked and hateful eyes, a mask of pure malice. He recognized it as his brother, the Shin-In. And then another gust of wind blew the snow away, and the rock was again merely a rock.
When Go-Shirakawa looked down at his hand again, it was shaking. Surely it is just the story Kakushō told that influenced my mind. That and the drink, that is all.
“Are you all right, brother?” asked Kakushō. “You are trembling. Shall I have the blinds lowered to keep out the drafts?”
“Though it is early, perhaps it is time for me to get some rest. It has been a worrisome day.”
An inner door of the room slid open and an acolyte of the temple knelt and bowed at the entrance. “Holy One, Majesty, a visitor has arrived with his attendant, seeking sanctuary.”
“Aha! Just as I predicted,” said the abbot with a wry smile, “our first guest. You cannot go to bed just yet, brother, without seeing the fish who has washed up on our shore.”
“You are right, Kakushō. I would be sorry to have missed it. I can stay up a while longer.” To the acolyte, Go-Shirakawa said, “You may send our visitor in.”
But before the acolyte could respond, a fat, bedraggled nobleman wearing only his white under-kimono stumbled in past him, followed by a frightened looking attendant also only in his underrobe.
“You,” said Go-Shirakawa, recognizing the once-arrogant Lord Nobuyori.
“My … my former Sovereign!” said Nobuyori, falling to his knees before them. His hair was thoroughly unkempt, and there were three lines, dark blue bruises, across his pudgy left cheek. “How, er … fortunate I am to find you here! Good abbot, I am blessed that you allow me in your presence.”
Both men set down their sake cups solemnly. “What makes you believe that you are welcome here?” asked Kakushō.
“Well, surely, as a holy man, you must understand that I have been a victim of Fate, neh? I only did what I have done because of that horrible false monk Shinzei. Surely you can understand that, neh? And my former Sovereign, surely you can be forgiving. Is that not one of the Ten Virtues? You once looked upon me with favor. It was your influence that allowed me to become Great Commander, after all.”
“And I have since,” said Go-Shirakawa, “come to regret it.”
“But … but I treated you well while you resided in the Single-Copy Library, did I not?” protested Nobuyori. “All your needs were met, you were well looked after?”
“You … burned … down … my … palace!” Go-Shirakawa growled. “You murdered my friends and my servants and their children!”
“B-but that was necessary, neh? To get at Shinzei. Forgive me, O-Dai-In, but I cannot be blamed if you chose to listen to the counsel of a sycophantic schemer—”
“I have heard enough!” Go-Shirakawa roared. “Secure this man in a cell and send word to Rokuhara that we have him.”
“Mercy, my lords, mercy!” cried Nobuyori. “Look at me! All my friends have deserted me. When I met General Yoshitomo as he fled into the mountains and asked for his help, he called me a great coward! He whipped me!” Nobuyori pointed at the bruises on his cheek.
“And then he deserted us, and we had to wander these hills alone. We met with robber monks in the woods, and they stole our clothing and goods and horses. We have nearly frozen ourselves walking here. Have I not suffered as much as any man ought? If you send me to Rokuhara, the Taira will execute me!”
“Hai,” said Go-Shirakawa. “They will.”
Kakushō called for armed monks to come take Nobuyori and his attendant and lock them up in a rice-storage shed for the night.
Go-Shirakawa added, “And send a messenger to Rokuhara immediately, informing them of the once-high leaf, fallen in winter, that has blown through our door. Have them send someone to take these two away in the morning.”
The monks bowed and the former Great Commander Nobuyori was dragged away whimpering and weeping into his sleeves.
When they had gone, Kakushō again picked up his sake cup, saying, “Sometimes, even when the night appears dark, the All-Seeing Buddha will send a gift.”
“Indeed,” said Go-Shirakawa.
Winter Rain
The morning was gray with brooding clouds, and a chill winter rain fell fitfully from the sky. Taira no Shigemori sat on a leather stool on the riverbank outside the Rokuhara compound, the tachi sword Kogarasu lying across his knees. He stared down at the shivering, once-grand Nobuyori, who knelt before him. Never had Shigemori had so satisfying a task as bringing the former Great Commander from the Temple of Ninna-ji to his sentence of execution at Rokuhara.
When the messenger had come from Ninna-ji the night before, Shigemori had begged his father for the honor of bringing Nobuyori to justice. To his surprise, Lord Kiyomori had readily agreed, also permitting him the honor of executing Nobuyori.
Early that morning, Shigemori had taken a hundred horsemen and ridden to Ninna-ji to retrieve the prisoner. Nobuyori and his aide had not fared well from spending the night in a rice shed. Their skin was clammy and cold, and they shook dreadfully, as if struck with palsy. There had been argument among the Taira escort as to whether Nobuyori should be given extra clothing to ward off the cold winter rain. Shigemori fina
lly had ordered him to be dressed in a peasant’s straw raincoat. “I want him to live to watch the sword that will cut off his head,” Shigemori had said. But Nobuyori couldn’t stay in his saddle at all well, particularly with his hands tied. By the time Shigemori had led his men back to Rokuhara, Nobuyori’s face was a mess of muddy bruises and bloody scrapes.
“So,” said Shigemori, “what have you to say for yourself?”
Nobuyori held his hands, palms up, before him. “You s-seem a wise young man. What s-sensible person would have acted as I d-did, in such total disrespect of the Emperor? S-surely you can see that none of this could have been my fault. It was all the work of a demon, I swear.”
“A demon,” repeated Shigemori, dubiously.
Nobuyori clasped his chubby hands together and stared at the ground. “Yes, a demon. In dreams, I saw him. The Shin-In. He told me he would help me get everything I desired. He told me the desires of other men in the palace, so that I could gain their goodwill. The Shin-In told me I would become known as a hero for this, that I would make Nihon strong again. I was not aware that I was committing crimes. How can you blame me? Please, speak with your father for me. Send me into exile, if you must, but s-spare my life!”
Shigemori stood, frowning. “You are the most despicable man I have ever seen. I think the only demons riding you were named Greed and Ambition. The nobles who have come to Rokuhara have told us of your excesses and your evil. His Majesty the Emperor himself has told us how you imprisoned him and tried to set yourself up in his place. After all you have done, there is no saving you now.”
Nobuyori bent down, his forehead to the ground, his body shaking with his sobbing.
Shigemori drew Kogarasu from the scabbard and, with a swift stroke, beheaded Nobuyori.
A Vision of Hachiman
Young Minomoto Yoritomo crawled on his hands and knees through the snow up the mountainside. His gloves and shin guards were soaked, and he couldn’t feel his hands or lower legs anymore. He could barely see more than an arm’s length ahead of him, so thick was the blowing snow. He could barely hear his breathing for the howling of the wind. Hachiman, do not let me die here, he prayed. I have only lived thirteen years, and I have not yet brought you glory.
When the Minomoto had fled east from the capital, General Yoshitomo had decided the road would be unsafe, and so they escaped through the wilderness, up the very side of mountains where no paths led. But the mountain kami, it would seem, were not pleased, and sent heavy snowstorms to plague the fleeing warriors. First they had had to abandon their armor, for the wind in the wide sode would have blown them off the mountainside and the yoryoi would have hindered their movement. Then they had to abandon their horses, for the beasts could not climb the icy rocks and steep hillsides.
It brought tears to Yoritomo’s eyes to remember dropping Eight Dragons into the snow. What unworthy bandit will find it? Surely my ancestor Yoshiie must be dismayed. What will protect me now? All Yoritomo had with him now of his warrior’s kit was the sword, Higekiri.
But because he was young and small, Yoritomo had not been able to keep up with his father or brothers, and in the heavy storm he had soon lost sight of them. He had no idea where they might be or where he was. Yoritomo had never felt so tired, so hungry or so cold in his life.
With a groan, Yoritomo collapsed facefirst into a snowbank, cursing his weakness. Surely the Taira and their supporters could not be far behind. I must keep going. As he turned his head, he saw a glimmering light on the snow around him.
Yoritomo pushed himself up onto his knees. The falling snow was now swirling in a circular pattern, as if a great mirror were appearing before him. Have I gone mad? thought the boy. Or is this what one sees when it is time to die? Out of the bright spot of light rode a warrior on a great white horse.
“Father?” Yoritomo whimpered, ashamed of the childishness in his voice.
The man on the horse rode closer, and Yoritomo recognized him from another place, a temple he had visited long ago.
“Hachiman …” Yoritomo breathed.
The apparition inclined its head.
Yoritomo bowed three times, and then asked, “Great Hachiman, help me. Where is my father?”
In a hollow voice like wind in a cave, impressive as the battle cry of a great army, Hachiman replied, “Think no more on your father, Yoritomo. Your fates are now forever parted. I come to fulfill a promise I made long ago.”
Yoritomo hung his head and murmured a portion of the Sutra of Filial Piety. When he finished, he asked, “Am I to die now?”
“You have much more yet to accomplish in this world. It is not yet your time to leave it. Take hold of my stirrup.”
As if in a dream, Yoritomo did so. Hachiman turned his horse and rode into the storm, up the mountainside. Yoritomo stumbled along beside him as best he could.
“Great Hachiman, if I will not see my father again, what of my brothers?”
“Those who live will be scattered like seeds of autumn.”
Yoritomo did not want to ask which ones would live. “Where are we going?”
Hachiman did not answer.
The boy did not know how long he walked beside Hachiman’s horse. They traveled through pine forest and over bare, ice-covered slopes of rock and gravel. The snow in the air around them was so dense that it was like walking through a cloud. The light that emanated from the kami illuminated strange shapes, and at times Yoritomo imagined he saw great dragons peering out of the mist at him.
At last, the kami stopped his horse. “Here.”
“Where are we, Lord Hachiman?” Yoritomo asked through lips so cold he could not feel them.
But the horse and the rider simply faded away, and Yoritomo fell to his hands and knees again with a hopeless cry.
A strong gust of wind cleared the air before him, and Yoritomo saw a small stick-and-thatch hut nestled into the mountainside. An old monk was emerging from it, coming toward him, robes held tightly against the cold.
“Who is there?” called the monk. “Who cried out?”
“Me, it was me!” said Yoritomo trying to stand. “Help me please!”
The old monk came up to him and took his arm. “What is this? What is a boy like you doing out in this weather, up here on the mountain? You look half-frozen to death! Come in! Come in at once and sit by my fire.”
Yoritomo let the old monk lead him into the hut, hoping his shameful tears would not freeze upon his face.
New Year’s Day
It was a solemn, yet contented New Year’s Day at Rokuhara. The traditional decorative balls made from silk ribbons and iris blossoms hung from the roof beams to keep demons at bay. Although there would be no procession to the Imperial palace for feasting and celebration this year, the Taira had reason enough to celebrate on their own. Lord Kiyomori gazed proudly at his family, seated on straw mats and silken cushions as they ate the holiday rice gruel mixed with the Seven Lucky Herbs.
The ladies, daughters, wives, and concubines of Kiyomori and his sons did not need their curtains of modesty, for everyone was family here. They and their serving maids reclined on the floor, their bright colorful kimonos and long, flowing black hair adding to the festive appearance of the great hall.
“Let us have a round of toasts,” Kiyomori said, raising his cup of New Year’s plum wine. “I will begin. To His Imperial Majesty. May the monks cleanse his palace of Nobuyori’s taint quickly so that His Majesty may return to it soon.”
“To His Imperial Majesty,” everyone echoed, bowing before they drank.
Shigemori, as the eldest son, was next. “To His Retired Majesty Go-Shirakawa, who ordered exile instead of execution for the unfortunates who fell under Nobuyori’s sway, and thus avoided the excesses of the Hōgen.”
“To the In!” everyone replied. Kiyomori noted that although Shigemori had become more of a warrior in the past year, still he was a Buddhist scholar and nobleman. Thoughts of peace and just dealings were never far from the young man’s mind. Though
the fact that Go-Shirakawa had declined Kiyomori’s offer to stay at Rokuhara until his new palace was built was a matter of concern among the Taira. Perhaps Shigemori is being shrewd in case the In has spies among us.
It was now Motomori’s turn. “To our father, Lord Kiyomori, who is now Daijin and an exalted member of the First Rank.”
This was met with a resounding cheer, which Kiyomori acknowledged with a smile and a bow. He flicked rice grains off the sleeves of his new black robes, his swelling pride distracted when Motomori fell into a fit of coughing. The people around Motomori pounded his back and rubbed his arms until his fit passed, but Kiyomori watched him with concern. Motomori is a fine second son and will make a good warrior when his illness lifts. If it ever does.
The next toast fell to Munemori. “Um. Well. To us!” Munemori said at last. “We three brothers are all now governors of provinces, with riches and higher rank to come. Let us drink to the good fortune of the Taira!”
It was somewhat tactless of Munemori to boast so, but everyone echoed “To us!” and drank nonetheless. Kiyomori reflected that it was just as well that Munemori was the third son. Munemori showed no particular talent at anything, scholarship or swordsmanship, and therefore it was good that not much authority would ever be expected of him.
There were more toasts after that and a round of poetry competition where nothing of much value was created. As the night wore on, Kiyomori learned from one of his servants that a particular gosechi dancer Kiyomori had admired would be waiting for him in a guest chamber. Kiyomori excused himself from the festivities and began to leave the hall.
He nearly tripped when the hem of his trousers was caught in a gripping hand. “A word with you, husband,” said Tokiko, who had been seated near the sliding door.
Kiyomori swallowed his impatience and sat with her. He noticed again that she was aging; there were strands of silver now among her raven tresses, and her face was not so fine as it once had been. It had been a while since he had slept beside her. “What would you, wife? I am quite tired and wish to rest.”