Genpei

by Kara Dalkey

  “You should not have been so rude!”

  “I was not the one who called the Head Chamberlain a—Oh, your pardon, my lord Taira. It appears there has been a mistake. The chamberlains did not call for us at all.”

  “You are certain?” said Munemori, using his most officious frown.

  “Well, that is, the ones we spoke to knew of no such thing.”

  Munemori sighed, rustling the paper in his hand. “It is no wonder Shigemori despairs of his chamberlains. They change their minds more often than the spring wind changes direction. This is a very charming poem, by the way. You are referring to the Regent, are you not, in this one about the ‘old, bent, and withered root?’”

  One of the maidservant’s clapped her hands to her mouth, her eyes wide. “You have been reading our poetry?”

  “I have a great appreciation for poetry. You show quite a bit of skill in … depicting the foibles of those around you. And am I incorrect in assuming that this one is something of a love poem to the Emperor himself?”

  “Oh, please, my lord!” cried the maidservants, hurrying in and shutting the shōji behind them. “Please tell no one of what you have read there. These are foolish things. Mere practice poems. We would not dare think them worthy of eyes other than our own. Please tell no one about them!”

  Munemori attempted his warmest smile. “I am certain I will have no cause for that.” He put the paper back on the floor and stood. “Now I will leave before I cause any question to your reputations. However, if either of you would like some … instruction regarding the art of poetry, I would be happy to be of help. I am a widower now, and my nights are long and lonely. Having a young person to … instruct in such arts would be … beneficial to both, don’t you think?”

  The girls blushed and giggled nervously behind their sleeves. Munemori picked up the chest, favored them with a slight bow, and departed, knowing that the regalia, and any possible tampering with the sword, would now be the last thing on the maidservants’ minds.

  At midday, Munemori pretended to a slight ailment of the stomach and after accepting some herbal tea from the Imperial Bureau of Medicine, he made apologies to the Ministries of the Guards and left the palace. He did not go home.

  Instead, Munemori’s ox-carriage made its way, by back streets, to the house where he used to visit the lady of the tall weeds. He had sent a servant the day before with rice and gold to buy the house from the woman’s aging mother “as a gift of apology for any harm I may have caused your daughter.” Therefore, as he had hoped, the dilapidated house was empty when he arrived. The tall weeds that grew in the former gardens had grown taller and thicker still and hid him from view of the street as he entered the gate.

  Little clouds of dust swirled around his clogs as Munemori strode into the main chamber of the house, carrying the lacquered chest. The air was still and heavy with early-summer humidity. Golden dust motes danced on the sunbeams that slanted in through the broken bamboo shutters and slashed paper walls.

  Munemori set the chest down in the center of the room and knelt before it. Though he had often been afraid of the demon Emperor Shin-In, and what the creature had asked him to do, this moment was nearly payment enough for all he had been through. Never before had he had such power within his grasp. Blessed Amida, thank you for allowing me to live to see this day, Munemori thought as he lifted off the lid.

  His hands fished in among the kimonos and grasped the hilt of Kusanagi. Munemori raised the ancient sword out of the box and reverently carried it out to the verandah of the house. Taking a moment to find solid footing on the broken and rotting boards, Munemori lifted the sword, higher and higher, until it pointed at the zenith of the sky.

  “By the blood of my Imperial ancestors,” Munemori intoned, “I command you, Kusanagi. In the name of my father’s father, who was Emperor, I command you. In the name of my mother’s father, who made you, I command you. Bring me winds. Bring me the most terrible storm winds this land has ever seen.”

  Munemori gasped with shock as a lightning bolt traveled up his arms, into the sword, and out into the sky. Clouds began to gather overhead, rushing in from every direction. They billowed like rippling silk, flowing like seafoam at the shore. The sky above darkened deeper and deeper gray, and then turned a sickly yellow-green. The daylight faded into the darkness of an early night.

  And the winds began, lifting the edges of Munemori’s robes, flapping his wide sleeves like the wings of frightened birds. The tall weeds around him sighed and chattered as their stalks were bent this way and that. The roof tiles over his head rattled ominously.

  Then Munemori heard the roar. It was the sound of thousands of horsemen galloping across the Kantō Plain, a continuous thunder as if the very gods had become taiko drummers, or chanting monks, their rhythym faster than the mortal ear could catch. As the wind became stronger, tearing at his tall cap, whipping his robe around him, Munemori heard the howling, a wailing and shrieking like the voices of vengeful ghosts, riding above the thunder. For one moment he thought he heard his dead wife screaming his name.

  Staring up the blade of the sword, Munemori saw the black clouds begin to swirl in a circle, tighter and tighter, and then a protrusion, like the arm of a black-scaled dragon, began to descend directly toward him.

  “Noooo!” Munemori screamed, although he could barely hear himself above the wind, “That way!” He pointed Kusanagi toward the east, toward the Imperial palace. “Go that way!”

  Slowly, slowly, the descending funnel twisted and turned, moving toward the east. As Munemori watched, the tip of the funnel reached toward the ground and touched down only a block of houses away.

  Munemori could barely stand; the winds buffeted him and pushed him. He had to duck his head as broken boards flew off the roof and walls and struck him. The floorboards of the verandah beneath him shuddered and bounced, nearly tossing him off his feet. The noise became so tremendous he feared he would go deaf.

  Kusanagi became increasingly difficult to hold. The sword pulled up and forward, as if it wished to leap out of his hands and into the swirling darkness. Munemori cried out with the effort of gripping the hilt. His arms ached with the strain. Munemori knew he was not a particularly strong man. He did not know how long he could hold on.

  Long, long moments passed as the screams of the living joined the unearthly screams of ghosts in the wind. Munemori could see entire thatched roofs rising into the air, whirling like autumn leaves. Whole bits of houses were plucked up as easily as a child picks flowers.

  The moment came when Munemori knew he could hold on no longer. As the floorboards buckled beneath him, Munemori cried, “Stop! I command you, Kusanagi! Stop the wind! By the blood of Ryujin and all the Emperors, by Amaterasu, Stop!” With all the strength he had left, he forced the point of the sword down.

  The winds subsided and the dragon’s-arm funnel rose back into the sky. The clouds began to disperse. Rocks and boards and bits of thatch rained down. The point of Kusanagi fell and lodged itself in the wood at Munemori’s feet.

  Munemori’s arms felt like twisted bars of metal. He could not bend them, or even barely move them. He managed to free one hand from its paralyzed grip on the hilt. Munemori turned and walked slowly back into the house, dragging Kusanagi behind him. The main room was now missing half of its roof, and two walls had gaping holes in them. Munemori shuffled over to the lacquered chest, flung Kusanagi into it, and replaced the lid. Then he lay down beside the chest and let exhaustion overtake him.

  The Lock of Hair

  Two days after the cyclone, Lord Kiyomori sat in the central room of his mansion of Nishihachijō, fuming. Though night had fallen, the temperature and his temper had not eased. The hot, humid air his fan delivered to his face could not soothe the discomfort of the summer’s heat no matter how fast he fluttered it. “Our fault?” he growled at the red-jacketed youths kneeling before him.

  “I fear so, my lord,” said the taller of the young men. “It has been difficult for us to
keep up with the rumormongers. And the people are getting bolder, my lord.” He indicated the younger boy beside him, who had a broken nose and a black eye. “They are no longer afraid to fight back.”

  Kiyomori flung down his fan in disgust. “How can they say such things? First the comet and now the winds are blamed upon the Taira!”

  “There is worse, my lord,” said the younger boy. “Some are claiming they are only saying what the Yin-Yang Office has officially stated. That the whirlwind was an omen—”

  “Yes, of course! Everything is a portent for the downfall of the Taira! Have we not brought peace to Heian Kyō? Have we not given the country an Empress and future Emperor? What ingratitude!”

  “Yes, my lord. Indeed, my lord,” agreed the cowering boys.

  “I will wager Go-Shirakawa is behind these rumors. He does all he can to harm my reputation. He has always resented my rise to power. How it must disturb him so that there will be a Taira Emperor on the throne. I’ll wager he would not be spreading these rumors if Shigemori were still in the capital. But with his beloved Taira ally gone, Go-Shirakawa feels free to say whatever he wants against the rest of us.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the boys mumbled.

  “But Shigemori felt no need to stay to protect his fellow Taira. No, now he has become a holy man. He had to go to Kumano because he has had a dream,” Kiyomori sneered. Word had reached Kiyomori of his son’s dream. Servants talk, and a servant felt the Great Lord of the Taira should know what his son had prophesied for him. Or is it Shigemori’s hope? Kiyomori wondered. Does my son spread rumors of doom to cover whatever he is plotting to do? An excuse to have me exiled, or have an accident happen, as I arranged for the death of Narichika? No one would think the worse of the wise Shigemori. Even the Dragon King protects him now.

  Kiyomori noticed the boys kneeling before him turning pale and he realized he had said more than he should before servants. “Are you still here? Begone. You must continue to stop these rumors. Put anyone who is spreading them in fear of losing his life. Go!”

  “Hai, my lord,” the youths said, and hurried out of the room.

  Kiyomori sighed. Blessed Amida, I am getting too old to carry the burden of my clan’s fortune alone. He stood and went to the shōji that opened onto the north garden and slid the door aside. Given his thoughts and the heat of the still air, he knew he would sleep little that night. Kiyomori walked out onto the verandah, hoping for a cooling breeze. But he stopped.

  An old man was kneeling on the verandah, his hair and skin white as stone in the moonlight. Indeed, he was so still for a moment, Kiyomori wondered if he were a statue dressed in robes, left as a prank, or a surprise gift. The old man wore the box hat on the forehead that indicated a Shinto priest, and he held the ringed wand in his hand of a yamabushi, a wandering wizard.

  The old man suddenly turned, startling Kiyomori. “Ah! Lord Chancellor,” the old one said, “it is an honor to meet you at last.”

  “Who are you?” asked Kiyomori, recovering himself. “What are you doing here?”

  “Forgive me, my lord,” the old man said, bowing stiffly. His eyes were unnaturally pale and reflected the moonlight as if they were lit from within. “I am no one important. Only, I came in hopes of doing you a small service. You may call me Mukō. I have been waiting quite a while to speak with you. Perhaps your servants forgot to announce me to you.”

  “I see.” Kiyomori was not surprised. Matters had been so disrupted since the whirlwind that his servants had been overlooking things. “What small service do you speak of?”

  “As you may note from my garments, my lord, I have studied the Mysteries. I once served in the Imperial Bureau of Divinations. Here … here are my … credentials.” The old man reached a clawlike hand into his sleeve and pulled out a rolled-up piece of paper. The old man placed the paper on the floor before Kiyomori.

  Kiyomori picked it up, untied the black-silk ribbon, and read it. It was a formal declaration of office, indeed for the Bureau of Divinations. But the ink was smeared here and there. “This chop,” Kiyomori said, “it is that of Emperor Sutoku. The one called the Shin-In.”

  “Yes,” said Mukō. “The document is old, I fear. I received the post forty years ago. Incredible how the time passes, neh? But I left the post a few years later and since that time I have been wandering from temple to temple and visiting the remote places of this land, learning whatever I can.”

  “So what has brought you here?”

  “Oh, I remember the great days when the Taira first began their rise to power. What a warrior you were then, my lord. Er, which is not to say you are no less impressive now, my lord. But I have heard men are saying unkind things about your clan, about you. I am concerned for you.”

  Kiyomori sighed with impatience. “I thank you, old man, but—”

  “I have even heard strange things concerning your son Shigemori, whom many favor.”

  Kiyomori crouched before the old man. “What have you heard?”

  “On my travels, I happened to pass through the shrine at Ise. A priest I befriended there told me of a strange request made by your son, a request for the copy of Kusanagi that hung at Ise to be delivered secretly to him here in Heian Kyō.”

  Kiyomori felt his heart turn to cold iron. “And was that done?”

  “I believe it was, my lord.”

  Kiyomori sucked in air through his teeth, and he rubbed his stubbled chin. “That can only mean Shigemori intends something with the Imperial Sword.”

  “While it is not for me to suggest anything, my lord, is it not true that Kusanagi commands the winds?”

  Kiyomori stared at the old man. “The whirlwind?”

  “It is not for me to say, my lord. But, of course, Shigemori had left the city by that time, I understand.”

  “So he knew he would be safe.”

  “That is only conjecture, of course.”

  “But why would Shigemori call down destruction upon the city?”

  “I do not say he did, my lord. But I notice his mansion and that of the Retired Emperor were spared.”

  “Is it to bring blame down upon me? Or is it to distract attention from what else he may do?” A terrifying thought occured to Kiyomori. What if he has taken Kusanagi and intends to throw it into the sea at Kumano, denying it to my grandson, perhaps blaming the loss of the sword on me?

  “That is not for me to say, my lord.”

  “Shigemori must be stopped. I thank you, good Mukō, for this information.”

  Mukō held up one hand. “I believe I said I came here to offer you a small service.”

  Kiyomori scowled. “And what is this small service you offer?”

  “As you see, I am a man of rite and ritual. I have learned many ways of making a thing so, or not so.”

  “You mean you do magic?”

  “If you would call it such. I merely believe I am persuading the kami to see things my way. You fear your son may attempt to do … something foolish. If you like, I can arrange that such a thing will not happen.”

  Kiyomori paused. He was reluctant to have anything more to do with supernatural forces. But if his enemies would use the winds and the Heavens to call for the Taira’s demise, why should he not employ greater powers as well? Something about the old man suggested otherworldliness, that he had seen and done things out of the ordinary. His very name meant Beyond. What could it hurt to let the old man do a ritual on my behalf? “Very well, you have my permission. Go and do this ritual.”

  The old man blinked slowly. “I would already have done so, my lord. Only, there is something I need from you.”

  “What is it? A payment of rice or gold?”

  “Not even that, my lord. But if this rite is to concern your son, Shigemori, I need something personal of his. It need only be a small thing, but it must be something he had worn or kept close to him for a long while. This will ensure the ritual will focus upon him alone.”

  For a moment, Kiyomori wondered if the old man might not be a
skilled beggar, hoping for a robe or writing brush that he might sell, proclaiming that it belonged to the great Shigemori. But Mukō did not seem that sort of creature.

  Kiyomori wondered what he might have of Shigemori’s. After all, his son had never lived at Nishihachijō, and rarely visited. All he had of his son’s possessions were keepsakes from childhood that his wife had kept out of fondness—

  “The only such thing I can think of still in my possession,” said Kiyomori, “is a lock of hair taken from Shigemori just before his trouser ceremony, when he was but a boy. I doubt that would be helpful to you, for it has not been on his person for a long time.”

  “On the contrary,” said Mukō, “that would be perfect, for it is a part of the man himself. You could give me nothing better.”

  So Kiyomori sent for a servant to bring him a particular small cedar box from his wife’s old quarters. When the box arrived, Kiyomori withdrew from it a folded piece of heavy rice paper flecked with gold. Within the fold of paper lay a thick lock of fine black hair. As he gazed upon it, Kiyomori remembered the day, long ago, when the little Shigemori had stood at the entrance to the family shrine, his young face so eager and happy. Kiyomori felt tears fill his eyes, and he cursed his old age that had made him so sentimental.

  He flung the folded paper with the lock of hair down at Mukō’s knees. “There. Take it. I hope it is useful to you. It means nothing to me anymore. I ask only that you stop Shigemori from committing his foolishness.”

  “Fear not, my lord. He will be stopped,” Mukō acknowledged, with a bow. The old man put the folded paper in his sleeve and departed.

  Kiyomori watched him go. The otherworldly old man moved in slow jerks and limps as if he were a bunraku puppet and not an inhabitant in his own flesh. On an impulse, Kiyomori called for servants and asked that the old man be followed and watched. “These are dangerous times, and I do not wish him to be harmed on the dark streets. See where he goes and make sure that he is safe.”