Genpei

by Kara Dalkey

  Still weary from his long, lingering night with the beautiful Tokiwa, for which the price had been sparing her sons, Kiyomori had felt compelled to visit this other captured son of Yoshitomo. Tokiwa had not pleaded for Yoritomo’s life, as she was not his mother. But many others in the palace had, even among the retainers of the Taira. Much sympathy was gathering for the Minomoto and the way Yoshitomo had been ignominiously murdered. Kiyomori wondered at the change in mood at the palace—as though something was clouding the eyes of Those Who Live Above The Clouds. Politically, Kiyomori was sensing that, for the moment, wisdom lay in mercy, not in ruthlessness, no matter what his wife counseled.

  At the carriage, Kiyomori removed the gray robes of his monk’s disguise and handed them to a servant, exchanging them for the black robes of First Rank. As the servant helped Kiyomori put on the black robes, he said, “My lord, your wife has instructed us to tell you she wishes urgently to speak with you whenever you are available.”

  “I know,” Kiyomori growled. “You are the tenth person to tell me so today.” Holding the robes around him tightly, he stepped through the back door of the ox-carriage and slammed it shut behind him. He sat down on the cushioned bench and sighed heavily.

  It had been a simple thing to promise clemency for Tokiwa’s children. The oldest boy was scarcely seven years, and the youngest, Ushiwaka, had been out of the womb only a few months. Such children would surely not remember their father and, if brought up in exile away from their family, would feel little call to avenge their kin. But Yoritomo was another matter.

  Still, the boy had seemed peaceable enough, wanting only to become a monk if sent into exile. It would be a risk, to be sure. The sympathy for the Minomoto could turn into military support, eventually. But that would be years away. There would be time for the Taira to consolidate their power. But if the boy were executed, the outcry would be immediate, and the Emperor might be prevailed upon to look on the Taira with less favor.

  Imperial politics is like walking through a forest choked with undergrowth, thought Kiyomori. There is no clear path, and any direction might lead to danger.

  The right shoulder of his new black robe slid down onto his arm, and Kiyomori impatiently tugged it back into place. Somehow the overrobe was not fitting right, and Kiyomori wondered if he might find a tailor he could trust to make it more suitable. A poem arose in his mind:

  New black robes

  Do not bring stillness

  Even the dark waters at Miyajima

  Toss to and fro

  Unceasingly

  He decided it was a poor effort and mentally set it aside to work on later.

  As the carriage lurched forward, Kiyomori’s thoughts drifted to hours before when Yoshitomo’s concubine Tokiwa had relinquished herself to him.

  It had been an unusual tryst for Kiyomori. The singers and dancing girls he usually took as his night’s entertainment were so eager to please him, to be able to boast to each other for the rest of their lives of how they had dallied with the Great Kiyomori. Or there were the unwilling ones, with whom Kiyomori employed his rank or veiled threats in order to pressure them into letting him have his way. Their poignant tears and weak protests brought a pleasure of a different sort.

  But Tokiwa had offered herself, clear-eyed and unafraid, in exchange for the life of her sons. She had told him how she had hidden in the Temple of Kwannon while the Taira were searching for her, and received a vision from the Goddess of Mercy. Kwannon had told her how to save her children, even though it meant some loss of honor. For Tokiwa, therefore, their lovemaking was an act of piety, a religious offering, a gift to the gods. Her serene detachment as Kiyomori had taken his pleasure had been quite unlike anything he had ever experienced.

  The bump-bump of the carriage wheels going over the threshold beam of the gate to Rokuhara jolted him from his thoughts. As Kiyomori dismounted from the carriage into the courtyard of his mansion, he decided he must at last take on the dreaded task of speaking to his wife.

  He made his way to her quarters and sat on the verandah outside her receiving chamber. The blind had been lowered to shade the room from the midday sun, so he could not see inside. He heard the rustle of kimonos approaching the blind and a young woman’s voice say, “Pardon me, but who is there?”

  “It is Kiyomori. I have come to speak with my wife.”

  “Ah! Kiyomori-sama. Please forgive this lowly one for not knowing it was you. We see so little of you. I will tell her at once you are here. She is most anxious to speak with you. Wait but a moment, if you please.” Her footsteps hurried away from the blind.

  Kiyomori sighed and gazed out at the garden, which Tokiko herself had designed, as it was the view she would look upon most often. The ornamental stream that wound around the entire estate of Rokuhara seemed even more serpentine here. The willows drooped over it sadly, and the cherry blossoms drifted down from the trees to float away on the water. It was a perfect expression of aware, the sublime sorrow at the impermanence of things. Kiyomori wondered how much more impermanent the things of the world must be to a woman who was immortal. For a moment, he felt just the slightest sympathy for her.

  But remembering that she was immortal reminded him that she was also the daughter of the Dragon King. And it had seemed to Kiyomori that, of late, Tokiko had come more and more to resemble the minions of her father’s kingdom. Her voice hissed, her gaze burned … what man would not seek pleasures elsewhere with such a wife as this?

  Presently, he heard the slither of heavy brocade silk kimonos, which called to his mind the sliding of reptilian scales over stone. “The sunlight is bright, husband. Why do you not come inside?”

  “I am admiring your garden,” Kiyomori said.

  “The garden is not at its best. It is more green when the rains come in summer. It has not seen rain for some time.”

  “Then I must imagine what beauty it will attain when the rains fall. Who knows? Sweet moisture may fall this very evening if the dragon who lives above the clouds is willing.”

  There was a pause on the other side of the bamboo blind. “And if the dragon feels too cold to receive rain?”

  “Then the dragon should let a distant ray of the sun bathe her in his warmth until she is willing enough.”

  “Tcha. What nonsense is this? You come speaking like an admiring courtier.”

  “Is it not pleasanter for me to greet you in this way?” protested Kiyomori. “We never had a proper courtship, you and I. Why could we not begin now?”

  “You sly dog. An old wife such as I is more likely to find such a capricious change of behavior … suspicious.”

  “Suspicious? What is there for you to suspect me of?”

  There was another pause before she replied. “Do you think I am a fool? Even curtains of modesty have gaps through which one can see, and they are no barrier to hearing at all.”

  “And what have you been hearing?”

  “That a certain Taira of high rank has become besotted with his new black robes and makes choices that look foolish to those of sober mien.”

  “Tell me who this Taira is, and I shall correct him.” Kiyomori thought he heard a soft snarl of frustration from the other side of the blind.

  “Enough. You know all too well. I have heard that the late Minomoto general’s son Yoritomo has been captured.”

  “So he has, and he is being well looked after.”

  “And yet he still lives?”

  Kiyomori sighed. “He is just a boy.”

  “He is fourteen, and fought beside his father against you. He would have killed any of our sons, had he the opportunity. And he may grow to have the opportunity again. Have I not told you that one must be ruthless in war?”

  “The war has ended, Tokiko, and there has been enough killing. Already I am called a butcher for having killed my uncle in the Hōgen and forcing Yoshitomo to kill his father. I am told by his keepers that this boy has a peaceful nature, and speaks only of someday building a stupa to honor his fallen fat
her. You are a woman. It is unseemly for you to speak of killing children.”

  A low hiss came from the other side of the blind. “You would choose the life of one boy over the fate of so many. What can possibly have blinded you so? Or who?”

  “It is not blindness to be aware of politics, woman. The feeling at court is that I should be merciful.”

  “The Imperial Court has been tainted since the rise of Nobuyori. The ministers who served him still advise there. Why should your thoughts be in accord with theirs?”

  “What does it matter whether my thoughts are in accord?” Kiyomori shouted. Then he lowered his voice, knowing servants would be listening. “The Taira Emperor is not yet on the throne. I still serve at the whim of Emperor Nijō and those ministers you fear. If I am to achieve what your father has demanded of me, I dare not risk the court’s displeasure now.”

  There was a long pause before Tokiko spoke again. “My poor father, how he failed to consider the greed of men. You think more on the Taira Emperor to be than the Last Days of the Law to come. And on a certain concubine of Yoshitomo, with whom you spent the night. Did she pay you well for the life of her sons?”

  Kiyomori stood. “I will hear no more of this.”

  A hand snaked out from under the blinds and caught hold of his hakama trousers. “Listen, and listen well, husband,” Tokiko hissed. “Your insult to me is only a small thing. The insult you do the Empire is far greater. This old dragon does not fear these fallen times. But even a man who walks on tall clogs can be tripped up by the smallest stones. The children of Yoshitomo must die.”

  Kiyomori tugged his hakama out of her grasp, hearing the cloth tear against her fingernails. “Enough, woman. I will hear no more such ugliness from you.” He strode away along the verandah. A chilly wind had come up that tugged at his black robes, threatening to blow them off his back. Kiyomori held the edges of the robes tightly around him, holding them on by sheer strength as he walked back to his quarters.

  The Widening Rift

  Summer came to Heian Kyō, and with it the warmth of peace. Merchants felt free to display their wares on the street, and warriors sent their weapons to be repaired and horses to play in pastures.

  Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa sat on a canopied platform in a garden of his mother’s mansion, having tea with his sister Jōsaimon’in. The platform was situated in the midst of a lotus pond on which the sacred white flowers floated in full bloom. The air was heavy with the scent of tachibana blossoms.

  “Oh, what is the matter, brother?” asked Jōsaimon’in. “Here it is the sweetest of days, and you sit brooding as though the clouds of winter still hung over us.”

  “No day is unclouded for the one that rules the land,” said Go-Shirakawa. He watched as a frog on a lotus pad snatched a fly out of the air with its tongue.

  Jōsaimon’in studied him a moment. “Brother, is it not time for that rule to fall to another? Your son Nijō is now free of Nobuyori.”

  “But not of his ministers.”

  “Then you should visit the Imperial palace more often.”

  “I do not like what I see at the palace.” In truth, Go-Shirakawa was appalled by his son’s behavior. For young Nijō now filled his days with nightly drunken celebrations, and his rumored voraciousness for women had only increased. It is as if the boy learned nothing of the consequences of Nobuyori’s acts. As if somehow Nobuyori’s influence remains. The boy has no understanding of the solemnity of his office. Surely our kami ancestors must look down upon him with shame. Worse still, Nijō would not give up the woman who had been his uncle’s Empress. For Nijō to disobey Go-Shirakawa, his father, with this flouting of tradition was a filial insult of the gravest sort.

  “I am sure your wise influence would be most helpful.”

  “My son does not wish my wise influence. I am told he even sends away all priests and monks who call upon the palace. No. I cannot let power fall solely into Nijō’s hands. He might prove worse than Nobuyori ever was.”

  “You are simply upset,” chided Jōsaimon’in, “that he gathers more nobles to his side than you do. The great families have begun to whisper that we are unlucky, after what happened to Shinzei. And they say it is easier to be in the right if a minister serves the ruling Emperor than the retired one.”

  “Or easier to manipulate a younger Emperor than an older one.”

  Jōsaimon’in sighed and laid her hand on Go-Shirakawa’s sleeve. “You take too much care upon yourself. Why not truly retire? Take the vows of a monk and let the heaviness of worldly life go. You bring danger to your family if you continue to involve yourself in politics this way. This mansion may not be as grand as Sanjō was, but with luck it will not be burned to the ground.”

  Go-Shirakawa felt the muscles in his jaw tighten. He threw a rice cake at the frog in the pond, but it hopped away with ease. “I cannot,” he growled at last. “I will not live to see Nihon brought to ruin. Not even if it means becoming the enemy of my son.”

  A Dream of Bows and Arrows

  Young Minomoto Yoritomo gazed out at the waters of the Inlet of Ise, waiting for the boat that would carry him into exile. He was amazed still to be alive.

  But word had come, shortly after the visit of the strange monk, that Yoritomo, along with his much younger half brothers, would not be executed. It had taken several months for the Taira and the Imperial Council to decide where the sons of Yoshitomo would be sent. But the answer, when finally arrived at, astonished even Yoritomo.

  The younger boys were being sent to monasteries—Ushiwaka, the very youngest, would be at a temple not far outside of the capital itself. And Yoritomo was being sent … east, to Izu! Close to the Kantō, to the homeland of the Minomoto clan. Surely, Yoritomo thought, this can only be another sign of Hachiman’s favor. With family nearby to look after me, it is unlikely that the Taira will change their mind and execute me later. And there will be support for the building of the stupa to my father. Yoritomo was thinking that if he ever had the influence, he would build more shrines to Hachiman.

  A sailboat came into view, heading up the inlet to where Yoritomo and his guards stood. The guards went down to the beach to help guide the boat in, leaving Yoritomo momentarily alone.

  Alone except for Moriyasu, the one servant Yoritomo was permitted to take into exile with him. Moriyasu had served the Minomoto faithfully for many years, and Yoritomo was heartened when he heard that Moriyasu had been chosen as his companion.

  “My young lord,” Moriyasu said, “it is true what they say about you. You have the courage of a hawk.”

  “Why say you this?”

  “Because other men who are exiled to far provinces are known to weep into their sleeves until their garments are soaked. They fall to their knees on the sand and try to grasp the earth so that no one can move them. They wail to the skies their poems of woe so loud that the hearts of all around them might break. But you stand with calm visage, with no tear in your eye. You do not sigh or sulk or gnash your teeth. Instead you gaze upon the sea as if it were merely another foe to conquer.”

  “Oh,” said Yoritomo who, by now, was becoming used to fuss being made over him. “Well, I do not love Heian Kyō, as others do. I do not think I will miss it. Too many people. I’d rather be riding a horse in the Kantō.”

  “I dare say someday you will, my young lord. Someday you will do that and more. If I may, I would like to describe to you a dream I had last night.”

  “A dream?”

  “It was a very brief dream, but it felt very real. I dreamed I saw you as a grown man, receiving bows and arrows from an impressive general who sat on a white horse. A radiant glow surrounded this warrior, and he nodded to you with great respect.”

  “Ah. That sounds like Hachiman.”

  “It could well have been, my young lord. Surely this is a sign of great favor. It must be that you will become a renowned general as your father was.”

  Yoritomo looked swiftly around, but fortunately no one else was nearby. “Moriy
asu, you must watch what you say! Some might think your dream is traitorous talk, and I might yet lose my head.”

  The servant bowed low. “Forgive me, my young lord. I had no wish to put you in danger. I only told you my dream so that you might have hope at this sad time.”

  “This is not a sad time for me, Moriyasu. I still live, to honor my father. I may yet have sons someday to bring honor to my clan as well. Hachiman has turned the hearts of the Taira to spare my life. This is still such a wonder to me that I have barely even begun to think of what to hope for.”

  The boat was pulled in close to the beach, and the guards shouted for Yoritomo to approach and get in. Murmuring a prayer to his clan kami, Yoritomo stepped into the roiling water of the sea and climbed aboard the boat.

  Island of Sutras

  A year passed, and an uneasy peace settled onto the capital. Go-Shirakawa continued to try to retain influence among the court nobles. The Minomoto, what few remained, retreated to their eastern landholdings and did nothing to bring the wrath of the Emperor down upon them. The major temples, Hiei-zan and Ninna-ji, waited to see which sect the young Emperor would favor, should he ever decide to receive holy men into his presence again.

  As for the Taira, Kiyomori used his newfound wealth and influence to build great works in his home provinces along the Inland Sea. The construction of the new shrine on Miyajima was well under way, though it would take some time to complete. He built harbors and waterways in Aki and Settsu. But he paid special attention to the harbor at Fukuhara.

  Fukuhara was a small village on the coast of the Inland Sea, down the River Toba from Heian Kyō. It was the closest part of the sea one could reach from the capital, and Kiyomori found himself at Fukuhara often, sometimes residing there for weeks at a time. He had not forgotten the Taira origins as masters of the waters.