Genpei

by Kara Dalkey

  It was all Go-Shirakawa could do not to roll his eyes and sigh in disgust. Rumors of sightings of the Shin-In had abounded in the capital during the year since his death. Unhappy people often seek supernatural causes for their misfortunes. But if those causes loom too large, they can become reason for unrest and riot. “How strange,” murmured Go-Shirakawa, “that so many have seen my poor dead brother, and yet he has not graced me with a visit.” Still, he remembered his vision at Ninna-Ji, and it worried him.

  Jōsaimon’in shot him a scandalized glare but said nothing.

  “His poor little son,” wept another lady. “So young to be placed upon the Jeweled Throne. He will never know his father.”

  That was another thing that severely annoyed Go-Shirakawa. As soon as Nijō had realized that his illness might be fatal, he had his two-year-old son declared Crown Prince. As soon as the decree was passed, Nijō had abdicated, leaving a toddler who could barely walk and speak sitting upon the throne.

  He did it to thwart me, Go-Shirakawa thought. To prevent me from choosing the successor. Another sign that he cared little for this country. The Great Council had been upset, of course, there never having been an Emperor younger than three, but as they were Nijō’s sycophants, they did nothing but waggle their tongues and shake their heads and let the child have the Jeweled Throne, giving him the name Rokujō.

  Jōsaimon’in tugged on his sleeve urgently. “Brother, look!”

  “The monks are fighting!” cried another lady.

  Peering past the curtains of state, Go-Shirakawa saw there was, indeed, some disturbance among the monks at Nijō’s grave. He could see monks from the Kōfukuji Temple attacking something with swords and naginatas. They sang their temple songs as they hacked at something on the ground.

  “Oh, no!” the ladies-in-waiting all cried. “There will be battle here! Over the Emperor’s grave! How horrible!”

  Go-Shirakawa stood, enraged by the disrespect to his son’s grave and fearful that the monks might start a riot. “Go,” he said to the ladies and his sister. “Leave now, quickly, all of you. There is no telling what might happen.”

  The ladies shrieked and hurried off of the platform, running to their carriages. Go-Shirakawa strode out to where his Captain of the Guard of the Right stood as if paralyzed by astonishment.

  Go-Shirakawa grabbed the man’s arm and shook him. “What is happening?”

  “A most bizarre thing, Majesty. The monks of Enryakuji placed their tablet second, out of order.”

  It was customary, at an Imperial funeral, for each of the major temples near Heian Kyō and Nara to place burial tablets inscribed with prayers for the fallen Emperor upon his grave. But there was a prescribed order in which each temple would place its tablet and do observance, based on age and importance to the throne. First should have been Tōdaiji, as it was founded by Emperor Shomu four centuries before. Next should have been the Kōfukuji. Third should have come the Enryakuji temple of Mount Hiei.

  “Why?”

  “Who can say, Majesty? You know how presumptuous Mount Hiei has become lately. Anyway, the Kōfukuji monks were upset with this and have been chopping up the Hiei tablet.”

  “You and your men will go to them and, in my name on behalf of the Imperial family, order them to stop. This is a sacred and solemn occasion, and it is unseemly for them to disturb it so.”

  The Guard captain swallowed hard and bowed. “As you wish, Majesty.” Gathering some of his men, the captain went to the procession of monks.

  To Go-Shirakawa’s relief, the orders had some effect. The Kōfukuji monks stopped their attack on the stone tablet, although it was already in so many pieces, it hardly mattered. The Hiei and Kōfukuji monks were guided away from the gravesite, and the rest of the temples continued to place their tablets in the proper order. But Go-Shirakawa noted the hard looks on the faces of the Mount Hiei monks both toward the Kōfukuji and toward him, as they passed by. Their thunderous expressions were more frightening than words or blows would have been.

  This does not bode well, Go-Shirakawa thought.

  A Chill in Sunlight

  Two days after the Imperial funeral, at midday, Taira Munemori returned to Rokuhara and leapt from the carriage as soon as it rumbled over the threshold beam. He ran across the great courtyard, which was filling with samurai unhurriedly putting on their armor. Munemori stopped to ask one or another of them where his father might be found. At last he was directed to a side garden, where Kiyomori stood conversing with a retainer. “Father, have you heard?” Munemori gasped.

  Kiyomori looked at him with impatience. “That the monks of Enryakuji are marching on the capital. Of course I have heard. Hours ago.”

  “Ah. That would explain the arming of the warriors, then,” Munemori said apologetically. “You are going to do battle with the monks?”

  “We have received no summons from the Emperor,” Kiyomori replied. “So, for now, the Taira do nothing. But we should be prepared. We have heard they may attempt to attack Rokuhara, but I doubt even Enryakuji would be so foolish.”

  Munemori glanced around to reassure himself that the walls of Rokuhara were tall and in good order. “The Imperial Constables have been sent to stop them. Perhaps that will be all that is necessary.”

  Kiyomori made a noise short of spitting. “A few hundred noblemen’s sons against thousands of armed monks? Well. I wish them good fortune.”

  “Begging your pardon, Lord Kiyomori,” said the retainer, a man Munemori did not know, “but rumor on the street is that the In, Go-Shirakawa, has stirred up the monks against the Taira.”

  “No, no, no, that cannot be—” Munemori began.

  “That would be extremely foolish, if so,” said Kiyomori, rubbing his chin. “The Taira have given only good service to the In. He is a poor strategist indeed if he thinks such an attack would serve his interests.”

  “Father, I know it cannot be true—”

  “But where is your armor, Munemori? Where are your men? Wait, who rides here?”

  A pony came around the corner, bearing a ten-year-old boy. Munemori recognized his youngest brother, Kyokuni. The boy expertly brought the pony to a halt and he slid off its back. Running up to them, Kiyokuni cried, “Father! Brother! I bring an urgent message!”

  Kiyomori beamed at the boy and grasped his shoulders. “Kiyokuni! What a fine young man you are becoming! Tell us your news.”

  “I am sent to tell you that Shigemori went to ToSanjō Palace because His Retired Majesty wishes to come to Rokuhara for protection. Shigemori is arranging the escort now, and they should be here within one hour. He asks you if you would be so kind as to make quarters ready.”

  Kiyomori looked at Munemori.

  “That was what I was about to tell you,” Munemori said. “Shigemori and I were summoned to ToSanjō. That is why I am sure the In is not behind this attack. He would not request our protection if he meant to destroy us.”

  “I have lived long enough to know that the intentions of Emperors and would-be Emperors is often difficult to fathom. But I will trust you are right. Kiyokuni, return to your brother and tell him the In is welcome to reside at Rokuhara as long as he wishes. We will make quarters ready at once.”

  The boy bowed. “I will tell him. Thank you, Father. Good day, Munemori.” Kiyokuni then ran off in search of his pony.

  “A stalwart boy,” said the retainer. “You must be proud of him, my lord.”

  “Indeed,” said Kiyomori. “He reminds me of my eldest, Shigemori. I have every hope that Kiyokuni will grow to be as fine a man.”

  Munemori seethed in silence. It was always Shigemori. The first son could do no wrong, while he, Munemori, was ignored, given little encouragement, set aside as superfluous. Even this youngest of Kiyomori’s sons, Kiyokuni, was given more admiration than Munemori had ever received. It is unjust, he thought.

  Kiyomori dismissed the retainer, and said, “Munemori, come with me. Let us go prepare the Southwest Wing, where His Late Majesty Nijō sta
yed when he was with us.”

  “Southwest Wing?” Munemori’s stomach went cold with panic as he remembered the sight of the Shin-in’s ghostly palanquin entering that wing of Rokuhara.

  But Kiyomori had already run up the nearest steps into the mansion proper. Munemori caught up to him as he was striding down the long wooden main corridor.

  “Southwest Wing? Err, Father, as to that …”

  “Well?”

  “Are you sure that is an appropriate quarter for His Retired Majesty?”

  “How do you mean? If it was good enough for Nijō—

  “Nijō is dead, Father.”

  Kiyomori stopped and scowled at Munemori. “What are you implying?”

  “N-nothing, Father, only that … there might be … unfortunate associations.”

  Kiyomori growled and continued on his way. “The Retired Emperor will be expecting to be put up in the same quarters. He would be insulted with anything else. The Southwest Wing is the best appointed and the best defensible, should an attack come. Besides, it would disrupt the entire household to have to move some of our family from another wing. I doubt we could manage it within an hour.”

  When they reached the Southwest Wing, Kiyomori began to order servants to prepare the rooms. The servants obeyed, but with nervous glances and worried sighs.

  “What is the matter with them?” Kiyomori asked Munemori.

  “Well, you know how foolish servants are,” said Munemori. “They think that this wing is, well … haunted.”

  “Haunted?”

  Munemori conjured up a false laugh. “Ha-ha. Yes. Isn’t that silly? Haunted.”

  Kiyomori fixed him with an iron glare. “Rokuhara is not haunted.”

  “Oh, of course, of course not. But … the servants have reported a certain coldness in the rooms, and things vanishing or moving about with no one touching them. With the servants so jittery, are you certain you want the In staying here?” Especially since there is already an In staying here, Munemori added to himself.

  Kiyomori whirled about and strode through the rooms, now and then pausing to sniff the air. “There is a faint, lingering odor of rot and ashes,” he said at last. “The wood floors seem not to have been polished recently, and a few of the shōji panels are stained or torn. The servants must be using their story of ghosts to excuse their laziness and unfinished work.” Kiyomori turned to the nearest cowering menial. “See that these things are taken care of at once!”

  The menial bowed very low and hurried off.

  Munemori became acutely aware that although he stood in a shaft of sunlight coming through the open bamboo blinds, a strange chill settled upon him. “Father, do you not feel anything is … amiss?”

  Kiyomori seemed to shiver slightly. But he said, “Nonsense. These rooms have always been drafty. We need more braziers brought in. You will see to it. As you did not come prepared for battle, I will leave the task of preparing this wing for our visitor to you.” Kiyomori left without another word.

  “Very well,” Munemori grumbled to himself. “But if anything goes wrong, I will know I tried. I know whose fault it will be.” Then he allowed himself a heavy sigh. He also knew who would be blamed. Glad that it was still daylight, Munemori began an inspection of the rooms.

  A Scent of Ashes

  Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa sat on the floor of the receiving room in the guest wing of Rokuhara, feeling less than comfortable. The place smelled musty, the rooms had only been hurriedly cleaned, and worst yet, his moving-in was hovered over by the bumbling Munemori. Go-Shirakawa could not imagine how the Lord of the Taira could have such disparate sons as Shigemori and Munemori. He had tried several times to dismiss Munemori from the proceedings, but the young man would not be dissuaded and constantly tried anxiously to offer advice as to where things should be placed and where Go-Shirakawa should sleep.

  “If His Retired Majesty wishes,” Munemori burbled, “I could send for a priest to chant sutras, which you might find soothing at this troubled time.”

  “Thank you but no,” Go-Shirakawa said through gritted teeth. “I have had quite enough of monks this day, and we do not wish to bring in any Enryakuji spies, do we?”

  “Oh, of course not. His Majesty is wise to think of such things. I only thought—”

  “Tax your brain no further, good Munemori. You have done quite enough for us.”

  “But if there is anything more Your Majesty wishes—”

  “I will send a servant with a request should I have one. Now surely you should join your father’s forces and help see to Rokuhara’s defense, neh?”

  “Oh, I am sure my father and brothers have such matters well in hand,” said Munemori. “I was expressly ordered to see to your comfort.”

  Or were you ordered to bedevil me to ensure I did not stay long? thought Go-Shirakawa. Such a thing would not be beyond the crafty Kiyomori. He gazed fixedly at Munemori. “My comfort now requires that I be left alone to confer with my counselors. Should I require anything further, I will let you know.”

  “But if Your Majesty could suggest to me some possible future need so that I might—”

  “Begone!” cried Go-Shirakawa, finally losing all patience.

  Munemori’s mouth set into a tight, thin line, and he bowed deeply. Then he scurried away like a mouse escaping a burning granary.

  How like him to force me into rudeness, thought the In.

  Middle Counselor Narichika entered then, and knelt before him. Narichika amazed Go-Shirakawa. He was one of the few noblemen to have survived both the Hōgen and the Heiji. Even though he had served the monstrous Nobuyori, Narichika maintained ties with the Taira, having once been Shigemori’s tutor and Narichika’s youngest sister was now married to Shigemori. And now Narichika had offered his services to the Retired Emperor. Though he did not know if Narichika could be trusted, Go-Shirakawa was impressed by the man’s ability to swim through the political cross-currents, and therefore found Narichika’s advice advice invaluable.

  “Majesty,” said Narichika, “there is word on the movement of the monks of Mount Hiei.”

  “Yes? Are they headed this way?”

  “Apparently not, Majesty. Nor did they stop at the Imperial Compound, as we had expected.”

  “They are not at ToSanjō Palace, are they?”

  “They came nowhere near there, Majesty.”

  “Hmm. After the look the monks gave me when I ordered a halt to their altercation, I was certain I would be the target of their wrath. Where have they gone, then?”

  “They were seen marching east, Majesty, straight through the capital. It is now thought their target is Kiyomizudera.”

  “Ah. That temple is affiliated with Kōfukuji, is it not?”

  “So it is, Majesty.”

  “So they merely wish to make protest for the destruction of their tablet at the funeral. They will probably march around the temple, singing their songs and shaking their sacred palanquins and be done with it. Am I a fool for having overreacted and fled here?”

  Narichika shook his head. “One can never predict what angry monks will do, Majesty. And the monks of Mount Hiei are formidable in their wrath. You were merely being prudent, Majesty. Such acts are never foolish.”

  “You put things in good perspective, as always, Narichika. Hmm. Do you feel a chill?”

  “Now that you mention it, Majesty, it does feel a bit cold.”

  “Light that brazier for me, will you?”

  As the evening wore on, messengers came to Rokuhara to report the continuing events. The Hiei monks did go to the ancient and revered temple of Kiyomizudera. But instead of marching and singing, they burned all its buildings to the ground before returning up the mountain to Enryakuji.

  Go-Shirakawa could smell the ashes and smoke from the burning temple on the drafts that blew in under the bamboo blinds and through the shōji. He was relieved to hear that the monks were leaving Heian Kyō, but he was reluctant to lie down to sleep. He felt antsy and on edge, fearful that h
e had made some dreadful mistake by coming to Rokuhara. Am I afraid that the Taira will keep me here, holding me prisoner as Nobuyori did in the Single-Copy Library? Do I fear that the Regent’s faction will accuse me of inciting the monks to terrify the Emperor? Or do I simply fear that Munemori will return to annoy me through the night?

  So Go-Shirakawa sat up, hour after hour, staring at the little bronze brazier on which he had set some incense burning to banish the unpleasant smells. His nose and forehead hurt, and his eyes watered. He tried to remember one of the sutras, but the words kept slipping out of his mind.

  At last, after a Taira watchman had called the Hour of The Ox, Go-Shirakawa wavered, drifting in and out of a strange half sleep. At some point he became aware of someone else sitting in the room.

  “Who is there?” he murmured. “Is that you, Narichika?” The shadows cast by the hastily assembled screens and tables were confusing and unfamiliar. He could not make out a person’s shape anywhere in the room.

  “Good evening, brother.” The low voice was just above a whisper.

  “Brother? Who is there?” Surely he would have been informed if the Abbot of Ninna-ji had arrived. What other brother could it be?

  “I have come to warn you.”

  “Warn me?”

  “Beware, brother. You are in grave danger. The Taira mean to destroy you.”

  “Destroy me?”

  “They wish to destroy the entire Imperial house and set Kiyomori up as Emperor.”

  “That … that cannot be.”

  “Oh, but it can. Kiyomori is of Imperial blood and is aware of it. Be watchful, brother.”

  “Lineage is not enough,” Go-Shirakawa argued, wondering if he was making sense.

  “Kiyomori is using magic. He has the aid of supernatural powers. He wants the Imperial Regalia, the mirror, the gem, and the sword, Kusanagi. With them he will wreak tyrannical terror over Nihon. Do not let him do this. Trust no Taira. Beware.”

  “But who are you? How do you know this?”

  It suddenly seemed that Go-Shirakawa was alone, no one else in the room, nothing in the air but the scent of ashes.