Genpei

by Kara Dalkey

  That autumn, in Leaf Month, of the first year of the era Ōhō, Kiyomori sat on the verandah of his house in Fukuhara. A strong wind brought the scent of the ocean. The house sat on a hillside, and he had a good view of the sea. He could see the artificial island that his men were constructing not far offshore. They had been building it for six months, and Kiyomori could see the stones rising well above the surface of the water, even though the swells were high and topped with white foam. Dark clouds were gathering on the horizon.

  If the barrier island succeeded as Kiyomori hoped, it could turn Fukuhara into a usable port where ships could safely harbor. Had I been given the fortune to become Emperor, Kiyomori mused, and therefore have the power to choose a capital city, I would choose it to be here. What lord could truly call himself Emperor if he does not have control of the sea? Those of Chang’an have mighty trading vessels and have commerce with many lands. Why should we not do the same? Too long, our nobles have hid themselves among the pleasant hills of Nara and Heian Kyō, paying little attention to anything else. There are many islands to the south peopled only by savages, legends say. Why should we not conquer them? When there is a Taira Emperor, I will counsel him on these things.

  A servant came, and said, “My lord, your engineer general has come to speak with you.”

  Kiyomori nodded and waved his hand to indicate the man should be brought to him.

  The engineer general came out onto the verandah. He was a short, stocky, bearded man whose clothing still smelled of salt brine. The man knelt and bowed. “Kiyomori-sama.”

  “What have you to report?”

  “The construction of your island goes well, but we are concerned. You see the dark clouds to the south. We have word from sailors arriving from Harima that a great storm is coming. It may be a taifun. We are already spreading word among the villagers to shore up their houses.”

  “Then you have done all that can be done,” said Kiyomori. “My island is built of stones. What can even a taifun do against that?”

  “The material is stone, my lord, but many of the supports are wood. And I have seen the damage the winds and tides of such a storm can do.”

  Kiyomori sighed. “Then you must have men upon the island to guard it and hold the pylons in place.”

  The engineer general was silent a moment and regarded Kiyomori with sad eyes. “My lord, if I may say so, in all respect, to ask such a thing is to condemn those men to their deaths.”

  Kiyomori narrowed his eyes. “Is it no longer an honor for a warrior to die at the behest of his lord?”

  “Against other warriors, in the thick of battle, my lord, your men would gladly fight and die. But you are asking them to fight the gods, against whom no man can expect victory.”

  “Is it not a greater honor to be asked to contend against the kami? Men survive storms all the time. You exaggerate the danger. Go now and see that it is done.”

  The engineer general opened his mouth to speak, but then did not. Instead, he stood and bowed silently and went away.

  That night, a dreadful storm did arrive at Fukuhara. Kiyomori huddled under a pile of brocade robes in the centermost room of his house, while the wind howled through the eaves. Rain spattered hard against the blinds and the shōji-like arrows. The clatter of the roof tiles resembled the hoofbeats of warhorses and the moaning of the wind was the wailing of warriors in their first charge upon the enemy. Thunder resounded like the rumbling of great taiko drums, and the house creaked and shifted around Kiyomori as if it were about to rise off its foundations and fly away. At the height of the storm, Kiyomori imagined he heard voices chanting his name in the wind, and he wondered if the spirits of the dead Minomoto had come seeking vengeance at last.

  But the storm subsided, and, in time, Kiyomori slept. He was shaken awake by a servant late in the morning.

  “My lord, my lord, please waken. It is already the Hour of the Snake.”

  Kiyomori threw off the robes he had slept under and hurried out to the verandah. Under a lightly clouded sky, he saw that many of the houses on the hillside below had sustained damage, but were still standing. But when he looked out to sea, his island was gone.

  “Send for my engineer general. At once!”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  It was some hours later, at the Hour of the Monkey, when the engineer general finally arrived. He was accompanied by two sailors who wore bandages on their arms and faces, as well as a very old Shintō priest in white robe and hat.

  “Where have you been?” Kiyomori demanded.

  “There were villagers trapped beneath fallen beams, my lord. It took some time to rescue them.”

  “What about my island?” Kiyomori shouted. “What happened to my island?”

  “I fear it was destroyed in the storm, my lord, as you can see.”

  “That should have been impossible! How could it happen?”

  The engineer general scowled and indicated the two sailors. “My lord, these men can give better account than I.”

  The sailors knelt and bowed low, almost pressing their foreheads to the polished floorboards. “Most noble lord,” one of them began, “there were seven of us on sentry upon the island, as you had ordered, when the storm came up.”

  “The waves grew higher and higher, my lord, and the wind grew stronger,” said the other man. “Nonetheless, we all held tightly on to ropes we had tied on to the pylons to keep them in place.”

  “We held on, my lord,” continued the first sailor, “even though the rope dug into our hands and the waves battered us from every side.”

  Kiyomori grew impatient. “Enough of your boasting. Tell me what happened to the island.”

  The two sailors glanced at each other before the second one went on. “My lord, at the height of the storm, a mighty wave rose over us. The lightning … it showed us that the wave held …”

  “Dragons, my lord,” said the first. “Dragons of the sea.”

  “These dragons fell upon the island, tearing at it with their claws. We were all washed into the water. We heard our fellows screaming as they drowned. But we, this man and I, we were carried to shore. On the backs of a dragon. We fell asleep from exhaustion on the sand. When we awoke, the storm was gone, and so was the island.”

  “We believe, my lord,” the first one added, “that we were spared to tell you of this event.”

  “Tcha!” said Kiyomori derisively, knocking his teacup over with a sweep of his hand. “Dragons, indeed.” But within he felt a shiver of concern. “No matter. The island must be rebuilt. You will begin at once.”

  “Kiyomori-sama,” said the engineer general, “perhaps you should hear the words of this worthy one”—he indicated the priest—“before you decide what to do.”

  The old Shintō priest in the white robe bowed low, and said, “Noble warrior-lord, we have had indications at the shrine that Ryujin-wo, the Dragon King of the Sea, is displeased with you. We believe this destruction of your island is a message, a warning to you. Perhaps you know, or do not know, what you have done to gain his displeasure, but at the shrine we are certain that you must, somehow, appease him, or your island will never stand.”

  Kiyomori knew what the Dragon King wanted. It is not fair. He promised me a Taira Emperor of my blood, and now he wants the sword before the deal is fulfilled. Or perhaps he disapproves of how I treat his daughter, my wife. But I will not be frightened into compliance. Even the Dragon King must keep his bargains. “I fear I do not know how I may have offended Ryujin so,” Kiyomori temporized. “Have you any suggestions, Holy One, as to what might be done to appease him?”

  “Ryujin is one of the old kami,” said the priest. “The dragons are not of the line of Izanami and Izanagi, and therefore they are not soothed by mere offerings of rice and incense. They prefer the old ways, as performed by our ancestors long ago.”

  “And what ways are these?” asked Kiyomori.

  “Dragons are sated by blood, my lord. It has been customary, in times past, to offer
precious life to a dragon who is causing trouble.”

  “A human sacrifice,” Kiyomori said softly.

  The engineer general and sailors stared at him aghast.

  “Just so, my lord,” said the priest.

  “Yes,” Kiyomori went on, “in the old tales, that is what dragons are given. Usually a young, unmarried woman, isn’t it? One of particular beauty?”

  “So the tales say, my lord,” said the priest. There was something too eager in his eyes.

  Kiyomori tapped the lip of his teacup. “But we are dealing here with the Dragon King. Surely a mere girl would be an unworthy offering to the mighty Ryujin. No, we should offer him something far more sacred. A priest, perhaps. One who has seen many years, and is very wise.”

  Alarm sprang into the eyes of the old priest. “S-surely you cannot mean me, my lord?”

  “Whyever not? You know the severity of the problem. Your soul, when freed, may speak well on my behalf in Ryujin’s kingdom. Who better?”

  The old priest bowed. “My lord, if you will, allow me to return to my shrine and we will consider the matter more carefully.”

  “Do that,” said Kiyomori. “But remember, the humble sacrifice of your own life would be recounted in legend down through the ages, should you offer yourself.”

  “I … I will remember, my lord.” The priest hurried away, his clogs clattering on the verandah boards.

  The engineer general and the sailors sighed audibly with relief.

  “Bloodthirsty old fool,” grumbled Kiyomori. “As if there were not better uses for pretty girls than killing them. He has been at his shrine too long, and his genitals are shriveled and forgotten.”

  “My lord,” said one of the sailors, “if I may, I have a suggestion. It is said among men of the sea that the Dragon King respects the ways of the Buddha, though he does not follow them. If you were to inscribe each stone of the island with a word or phrase from the sacred sutras, thus making the island a holy work, he might be less inclined to destroy it.”

  And that, thought Kiyomori, would be a way to stop Ryujin without appeasing him. A way to show him I am not intimidated by his power. Besides, I am thought enough of a brute already. I’ll not sacrifice a life to him just so it can be used against me later. “This is an excellent notion, good fellow. I thank you. Go to the nearest temple and arrange it, and I will award you a captaincy and your own boat to command.”

  A smile split the sailor’s face, and he bowed low. “Most excellent lord, it shall be done.”

  The Death of the Shin-In

  Two years later, in the third year of the era called Eiryaku, the demon who had been Emperor Sutoku, and then known as Retired Emperor Shin-In, finally passed away in Sanuki Province. He was not mourned. Those few present at his final rites said that his corpse had a most fearsome appearance, no longer human at all. His body was burned on a funeral pyre, in accordance with custom. But as the black smoke rose skyward on that windless day, instead of drifting up to Heaven, the column bent and pointed northeast, toward Heian Kyō, at times pointing like a cursing finger, or reaching like a grasping claw.

  His remains were buried at Shiramine, and by Imperial order no marking stone was laid to mark the place. But the residents nearby had no trouble knowing where the Shin-In’s ashes lay, for the earth above it remained bare: nothing would grow there.

  Three nights after the Shin-In was buried, Taira Munemori, Lord Kiyomori’s third son, was returning to Rokuhara. He had been out again to visit the lady of the tall weed house. But she had left him a surprise. She had not been home, and her one elderly maidservant claimed that the lady had realized Munemori would do no good for her. So the lady had gone away to become a nun, to forget Munemori and the sorrows of the world. The maidservant would not say which temple she had gone to.

  Thus Mumemori rode home in his ox-carriage, lonesome and unsatisfied. He had always expected to be the one to break things off. He had already composed the farewell poems. For her to leave him first! How unfair! A sole tear formed in his eye and dropped heavily onto his sleeve.

  The ox-carriage stopped abruptly, and Munemori peered out the side window. The walls of Rokuhara were beside them, but they had not yet gone over the threshold beam and entered. “What is it?” he called up to the ox-driver.

  “M-my lord. It is the ghosts again.”

  Munemori felt a sudden chill. “It is only an illusion. Drive on.”

  “My lord, the palanquin stops. The one within … he beckons for you.”

  Masking his fear with anger, Munemori stormed out of the back door of the carriage. He walked forward beside the oxen and stopped. It was, indeed, the same ghostly procession, with the executed Taira generals before the palanquin, the dead Minomoto behind. Only now, on a horse of deepest black, the ghost of the great Yoshitomo himself had joined the parade at the rear.

  The palanquin’s curtain was open, and the space within was filled with a sickly green light. The Shin-In sat there, as before, but looking more wicked and powerful in aspect. His hands were now claws, and his face was so shriveled and sunken it could not have ever belonged to a living man. He held out a long arm and beckoned again to Munemori.

  Unable to stop himself, Munemori staggered up to the palanquin and knelt in the mud before it. “M-most High Retired Majesty,” stammered Munemori, “what do you want of me now?” He tried to remember a sutra to chant, but could not bring a single holy phrase to mind.

  “Several of my companions here,” rasped the Shin-In, in a voice like slithering serpents, “wished to return to the place they had been killed, for such is the nature of spirits, neh? As for myself, I ask only for your hospitality. His Imperial Majesty speaks highly of his stay here at Rokuhara. I came to see if he was correct in his assessment.”

  “You—you can’t stay here!” Munemori blurted out. “This is the home of the Great Kiyomori of the Taira.”

  “Ah, yes, the Great Kiyomori,” said the Shin-In, leaning out of the palanquin so that his horrible face hovered over Munemori. “The one responsible for my downfall and who brought several of these brave gentlemen to their deaths.”

  “But I heard you had died,” whimpered Munemori. “Why have you not gone on to another life or to …”

  “… to Hell?” the Shin-In suggested with a terrifying grin.

  “To the court of Emma-O, I was going to say, Majesty. Where your life would be judged fairly.”

  “Because your beloved noblemen so desperately wished me gone, I have chosen to stay. They thought my vengeance would be finished with my death, but they were wrong. My hate extends beyond life, beyond death. And no mere daughter of a Dragon King can spare the Taira from my hate. No mere magical sword can spare the Empire from its destruction. And I have many friends now”—he gestured toward the dead warriors—“who have reason to hate the Taira as well.”

  “Please, o Great Retired Emperor,” begged Munemori, “spare my clan. We have only done what any aspiring family would do, and we have always loyally served the Jeweled Throne.”

  “You did not loyally serve me. Spare you? I think not.”

  The ghost of the Shin-In sat back in the palanquin, and the curtain slid shut. The dead warrior bearers, with dignified mien, carried it through the high stone wall, not bothering with the gate. The procession vanished into the mansion itself.

  “No, no,” sobbed Munemori. “This cannot be.”

  The ox-driver came up beside him. “My lord, you will tell Lord Kiyomori of this, then, yes? Shall we wake him?”

  Munemori shook his head. “Not … not now. I must think on when would be a good time. Not now. Not now.”

  Burial Tablets

  A light, early-autumn rain was falling, dampening the sleeves of the monks as they marched by in slow procession across the slope of Mount Funaoka. Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa, seated upon the platform for the Imperial family, thought it entirely appropriate weather. He only wished the patter of the raindrops on the oiled-silk canopy overhead would drown out the weep
ing of the women around him.

  “He was so young,” sighed Jōsiamon’in, dabbing at her eyes with her sleeves.

  “People die at any age,” Go-Shirakawa grumbled.

  “Not when they seem so hearty,” Jōsaimon’in said.

  “He was so handsome, so charming,” a lady-in-waiting sobbed somewhere behind them.

  Yes, thought Go-Shirakawa, willing to entertain ladies of all sorts, Nijō was. Yet a long illness and death had claimed the young Emperor of twenty-three.

  Jōsaimon’in leaned closer and said, “Begging your pardon brother, but you should allow yourself to make your grief more public. He was your son, after all.”

  “We were estranged. That is no secret.”

  “But people are beginning to talk.”

  Go-Shirakawa allowed his head to droop. True. And now I understand why Taira Kiyomori has the rabid reaction to gossip that he does. People were whispering that Go-Shirakawa had a hand in his own son’s death. I may be a political creature, but even I would do nothing so sinful. Very likely Nijō drank too much, spent too long in the rain, and caught a fever. Or perhaps his beloved former Empress-Aunt passed along to Nijō the same thing that killed her first Emperor, Konoe, who, I recall, also died young. But it would be disrespectful to speak of such earthy matters regarding the Emperor, neh? Therefore, someone must be at fault. And I am not popular with those lords who once served Nobuyori.

  “That is better,” said Jōsaimon’in.

  “You know I had nothing to do with this,” Go-Shirakawa growled, loud enough so that others nearby might hear.

  “Of course, of course,” his sister said quickly, fluttering her fan in embarrassment.

  “It was the Shin-In,” he heard a lady behind him whisper. “I saw the Shin-in’s ghost when I was staying at the palace one night. I am sure his curse felled our Nijō.”