by Kara Dalkey
“I see,” said Kenreimon’in. “That was … an impressive dream, An-chan.” Could he do it? she wondered, her heart filled with a strange hope. The sword may be properly wielded by the Emperor, after all. Could my little son save us?
“But Obaa-san says I mustn’t use it,” Antoku went on. “She says it belongs to my great-grandfather, the Dragon King. People have kept it for too long. Now if it’s used, it will only turn out evil. That’s what she says.”
Kenreimon’in let out her breath in disappointment, but also some relief. She wondered if Antoku was accurately remembering what Nii no Ama had told him. If so, then Nii no Ama had not been entirely truthful when Kenreimon’in had told her the secret. In these troubled times, we can truly trust no one, not even those closest to us.
Men approached the palanquin and took positions at the poles, three men on each. With a combined shout of “Hei-ya!” they lifted the poles to their shoulders. Kenreimon’in and Antoku were only jostled a little as the palanquin rose, and soon they moved forward, the palanquin bouncing gently to the gait of the marching bearers.
The interior of the palanquin darkened as they moved away from the torches and lanterns of the house. Antoku slumped onto the cushions, drifting off to sleep again with Kusanagi on his lap. Kenreimon’in peeked out through the center slit of the gauzy curtains. The sky was just beginning to lighten with the dawn, but one could still dimly see the River of Heaven sparkling overhead. Below it hung the cold, setting moon. In the distance, she could hear cocks crowing to welcome the sun. Nearby, on the streets of Heian Kyō, she could hear the weeping of the common folk who watched the sorry Imperial procession pass.
This is not a day on which the sun should be welcomed, thought Kenreimon’in. It should remain dark from now on. Amaterasu should return into her cave until Antoku is permitted to coax her out again with the Sacred Mirror.
The scent of burning wood stung her nose, and Kenreimon’in sat up suddenly, disturbing Antoku.
“What is it, Mama-chan?”
Kenreimon’in thrust her head out through the curtains and looked behind them. Flames were licking the rooftops of the mansion they had just left. “They are burning Rokuhara,” said Kenreimon’in sadly. “They are burning all the Taira mansions; Nishihachijō, Ike, Komatsu, so that the Minomoto will find nothing to steal or despoil when they come into the city.” She watched for a few moments more as the place where she had spent happy childhood years, the gardens where she had played, the rooms in which she had learned writing and music, the room in which she had been born, the room in which she had given birth, all were wreathed in smoke, vanishing into the cold autumn dawn.
A stream flows onward
Nothing remains as it was
All is illusion
Tears blinded her sight, and Kenreimon’in withdrew her head back into the palanquin.
“Why are you crying, Mama-chan?” Antoku slid over to her and put his short arms around her neck.
But Kenreimon’in could not answer him. She pressed the hems of her sleeves to her face and wept for a very long time.
The Old Capital
Do you think we can begin again here?” asked Koremori. His eyes were still red from weeping for the family he had had to leave behind in Heian Kyō.
“I think not,” said Munemori, looking over what remained of the former capital of Fukuhara. They had arrived in late afternoon of the Twenty-fifth Day of the Seventh Month. But, if anything, Fukuhara had become even more dreary now than when it had been abandoned almost three years before. The Bubbling Spring Hall, the Snow Viewing Palace, the Reed Thatched Palace—all were overgrown with weeds and ivies and had clearly been looted by the local fishermen. The New Imperial Palace was in even worse condition, clearly having been vandalized by the tengu.
“The Taira no longer have the resources to finance the rebuilding that would be necessary here,” Munemori said, “and we are still too close to the capital. The Minomoto could reach us here in two days, not enough time to gather enough men to hold them off.” Only an estimated seven thousand warriors had ridden with them from the capital. And there had been sad defections—Yorimori, one of Kiyomori’s younger brothers, had chosen to stay in the capital and fight for the Minomoto. The Fujiwara Regent, Motomichi, had disappeared from the Imperial procession and fled.
Munemori did not doubt that there would be more.
“Then what will we do?” asked Koremori.
“Gather all the boats you can. Search up and down the coast tonight and beg, buy, or seize every vessel of any size. The sea has always been home to the Taira. It will shelter us in these direst days. Tomorrow we will set sail for Kyūshū, to be as far from the Minomoto as possible.”
Koremori’s eyes widened. “That is far exile indeed.”
“But one from which Fortune, I hope, will soon pardon us. Go.”
Koremori bowed and rushed off. Munemori turned and walked up the broken stone pavement, up the hillside to where the New Imperial Palace stood. What was left of it.
For the moment alone, Munemori wandered the weed-choked grounds, noting the fallen roof tiles, which had been cast in the form of mandarin ducks. Ducks were not a good omen for the Taira, it would seem, he thought. Toward the south, from the prominent hillside, he could see Kyonoshima, the artificial island where the ashes and bones of Kiyomori lay.
“Forgive me, Father,” Munemori murmured. “Things did not turn out as well as you had hoped. But I hope you understand that I have done the best I could.”
He heard cawing laughter behind him. Munemori whipped around, drawing his short sword.
“Hah, hah!” said the tengu crouched among the weeds. He was nearly as tall as Munemori, with large black wings and a big yellow beak. “You’d better put that away, son of the sinful Kiyomori. Even the smallest Leaflet Tengu could best you in a fight, and you know it.”
Warily, Munemori sheathed his sword. “What do you want?”
“I come to give, not take. I come to give you advice.”
“We don’t need advice from a demon.”
“Ah, but you do. I offer a last chance, Munemori of the Taira. Kiyomori is dead, and the Dragon King has no particular quarrel with you. Therefore, he offers this to you: sail to the Shrine of Itsukushima. Have the little Emperor throw Kusanagi into the sea. Do this and the lives of the remaining Taira will be spared. If you do not do this, Ryujin will do nothing to aid you. In fact, he may aid your enemies.”
“What madness is this?” cried Munemori. “The Imperial Regalia are our symbols of the legitimate right to rule. Now that the Retired Emperor is no longer with us, we need them to show that Antoku is the true heir of the Imperial line. Without them, we are nothing. If we throw the Sacred Sword into the sea, we will lose what little goodwill we have left among the people. All would be lost.”
“You foolish man,” said the tengu. “Don’t you see? All is already lost! If you take the Dragon King’s advice, your line will not completely vanish from the Earth, and some Taira will remain to sing songs about their days of glory. Refuse Ruyjin’s offer and your fate is in the hands of the gods, which, I must tell you, are not at all well-disposed to the Taira.”
“I will not listen to these threats,” growled Munemori. “There are many precedents in history where great adversity was overcome by those of brave heart.”
“Among the Taira,” sneered the tengu, “there is no such person left.”
“Enough! Begone, before I call for my archers!”
“I will go, but consider well what I have said, unfortunate Munemori. You have no other avenue of hope. All other roads lead the Taira to their doom.” With a mighty clap of his wings, the tengu leapt into the air and flew up into the darkening sky.
Munemori returned his gaze to the ruins of the New Imperial Palace. “I must have this set afire before we depart,” he muttered.
Messages from the Capital
Cheers were still echoing through the Great Hall at Kamakura, as Minomoto Yoritomo read the mi
ssive from Yoshinaka, describing his securing of Heian Kyō:
With no opposition from any Taira forces, I have today taken the city. We have escorted his exalted Former Majesty Go-Shirakawa to the Imperial palace, and he has done me the honor of granting to me those mansions still standing that formerly belonged to the treacherous Taira. I have been given an Imperial mandate to chase and destroy the traitors to the Jeweled Throne, and it is very possible that I will soon be given the title of shōgun by Imperial command. At this time, I have received the titles of protector of the city, Governor of Iyo, and Director of the Left Horse Bureau. I hope this good news of the rising of Minomoto fortunes pleases you …
But it had only somewhat pleased Yoritomo. For he had in his sleeve another message, received in secret on that very same day from Go-Shirakawa’s emissary.
To The Lord of Kamakura—
Now that Heian Kyō has been made peaceful once more, I wish to invite you to come with your forces to the capital. There is much work to be done that would be helped by someone with your capabilities. While your esteemed cousin is an able commander, I fear there are some qualities he lacks that are necessary in a military lord …
Reading between the lines, Yoritomo understood that Go-Shirakawa feared Yoshinaka and did not trust him. Excusing himself from the drinking and dancing festivities in the Great Hall, Yoritomo retired to his prayer room, where he kept a small shrine to Hachiman. He washed his hands and rinsed his mouth and offered five prayers of thanksgiving to the kami. And then he burned a stick of incense in a brazier and summoned his other guardian spirit.
“All hail, great lord of the Minomoto,” said the Shin-In, materializing in the incense smoke. “Today is a day of glory for you, is it not?”
Yoritomo bowed before the late former Emperor. “It is so, Noncor-poreal Majesty, and my thanks must be given to you as well as to our clan kami at this happy turn of events. And yet, I am still troubled in my mind and yet again I seek advice from you.”
“Unburden to me your thoughts, Yoritomo-san, and I will advise as always.” The Shin-In’s smile was almost benign.
“Your brother, the Retired Cloistered Emperor, has requested that I go to Heian Kyō with a force of warriors. I expect he intends that I will do battle and subdue Yoshinaka, or at least prevent Yoshinaka from untoward action. And yet, I fear leaving Kamakura at this time. There are still generals who see themselves as lords of Kantō and wish to usurp my place. I am truly torn. Yoshinaka has possession of the Retired Emperor, whom he may convince to side with him against me. Can you advise me in this?”
“Hmmm. Do not concern yourself with too many matters, Yoritomo-san. Keep your mind clearly on your goal. All is sorting itself out as it should. The time of Heian Kyō is past, the future lies here in Kamakura. You are wise to wish to remain and consolidate your power. If Yoshinaka becomes a problem, I suggest you send that braggart of a younger brother of yours, Yoshitsune, to deal with him. If you are fortunate, they will destroy each other and you will have two problems solved at once.”
“Ah,” said Yoritomo. “That is indeed very wise, Majesty. Very wise. I shall keep this possibility in mind.”
As he left the prayer chamber, Yoritomo stopped to admire the maples in his garden. The leaves were just starting to turn to orange and gold.
An autumn wind blows,
Leaves change their hue, fortunes change
with the new season.
Yashima
Taira Munemori stood on the beach of Yashima in Sanuki Province, off the island of Shikoku, staring to the north. A chill autumn wind off the sea rippled the sleeves of his red brocade jacket and leggings. The tang of the salt air filled his nose and mouth, a scent that he had become used to, and had even learned to savor, over the past couple of months. While to many Taira, especially the ladies, it was a scent of exile and despair, to him it brought a feeling of wild freedom and endless possibility.
“Do you think, on a clear day,” he asked the old man attendant beside him, “that one can see the far shore?”
“So I am told, my lord. You know, it is a curious thing, my lord, but I am told it was on this very beach that the late former Emperor Sutoku, called by many the Shin-In, used to walk during his exile. And he would ask that very question. It is said that it was right out there”—he pointed toward the rolling gray water—“that the Shin-In threw his sutra scrolls into the sea. That was over twenty years ago. Some fishermen still remember that dark day and they will not seek fish from that spot for fear they will catch some demon creature instead.”
Munemori bristled at again being compared with the treacherous spirit. “My purpose here is entirely different,” he grumbled at the attendant. “While the Shin-In no doubt bewailed his fate in self-pity, I am planning our return to the capital.”
In the months after leaving Heian Kyō, the Taira had sailed ever southward to the island of Kyūshū. They had gathered more warriors and support there, but Yoritomo had managed, through messages and edicts, to frighten enough landowners there to ruin the Taira’s welcome. And so the Taira had fled again, now to Shikoku Island across the Inland Sea from Honshū. It was a better location, Munemori reflected, even than Fukuhara. It was close to the mainland, but the strait between was often beset with winds and tides, giving effective protection from attack. And the Minomoto had never been good fighters upon the sea.
It was also a good location in which to receive messages and intelligence from the capital. There had been a message from the Retired Emperor, requesting that Munemori return Emperor Antoku and the Sacred Regalia to Heian Kyō, in return for peace. Munemori had refused. Without the Emperor and his symbols, the entire country could rise up and slaughter all the Taira.
There had been word from partisans in the capital that the Minomoto commander, Yoshinaka, was wearing out his welcome quickly. That his troops were seizing land and mansions, committing robbery upon the citizens, destroying what they could not steal. Now some in the capital were saying that, for all their dislike of the Taira, the Minomoto were proving to be worse.
That suited Munemori very well. “Let the ungrateful people suffer for a time,” he muttered. “When we return, they will beg our forgiveness and never speak ill of us again.”
“My lord? Did you say something?”
“Ah. Have you word from the earthworks at Ichinotani?”
“The last I had heard, they were progressing well, my lord.”
Across the strait, to the west of Fukuhara, was a spit of land where the cliffs came nearly down to the sea. At that place, Munemori had sent engineers to put up a fort and earthworks. From there, the Taira could control the Western Sea Road, cutting off the western provinces from the capital and east. From there, even a small number of Taira forces could hold back the Minomoto onslaught until the tide had turned again in their favor.
Hōjūji Mansion
In early morning, on the Ninth Day of the Eleventh Month, Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa sat in the reception hall of Hōjūji mansion, gazing approvingly at the assemblage of black-robed First Rank nobles. They were discussing possible promotions for the New Year, how best to redistribute duties among the remaining noble families. At last, thought Go-Shirakawa, matters were proceeding as they should, and Go-Shirakawa felt like the Emperor he always should have been.
In the past couple of months, the Taira had won a few small battles along the Western Sea Road and had been building forts and earthworks from which to control the western provinces. At last, Go-Shirakawa had been able to make the boorish Yoshinaka and his warriors leave the capital in order to do battle with the Taira. Yoshinaka was having mixed success, and Go-Shirakawa rather hoped some fortunate Taira arrow would find Yoshinaka and solve that problem for him.
In the meantime, his four-year-old grandson Go-Toba, a child from one of Takakura’s many liaisons, had had his Accession Audience and was ready to ascend the throne as soon as the Taira could be convinced that Antoku was no longer the rightful ruler. Strictly speaking, Nihon
was now ruled by two Emperors, but Go-Shirakawa did not expect that this strange circumstance would last for long.
A chill winter breeze slipped under the bamboo blinds, rippling Go-Shirakawa’s gray sleeve. He paid it no heed. For a moment, he thought he heard cruel laughter, but none of the noblemen were even smiling.
Then, quite clearly, there came the sound of a Buddhist thunderbolt-bell being rung wildly out by the main gate of the compound. Someone was trying to keep out evil forces or dispel a spirit. The noblemen looked toward Go-Shirakawa in confusion. “What is going on?”
To a servant, Go-Shirakawa said, “Go and see what is happening at the gate.”
They heard shouting then, followed by a battle roar of a thousand voices. A flight of humming arrows was heard passing over the roof from the rear of the mansion. These landed overhead with loud thunks. Soon thereafter came the smell of burning wood.
The shōji was flung open. “We are under attack!” shouted the servant who slumped there, an arrow protruding from his shoulder. “Yoshinaka has returned and chosen to rebel. You must flee!”
The noblemen jumped to their feet, bumping into one another in their confusion and fear.
“See to the young Emperor!” shouted Go-Shirakawa to anyone and everyone as he made his way to the nearest secret passage. He brought two servants with him and hurried underneath the main structure of the mansion until he came to a single-rider wicker palanquin waiting in an alcove near the rear gate of Hojuji. Go-Shirakawa crawled in and curled up inside the palanquin as the two servants picked up the poles.
There was a portion of the wooden wall of Hōjūji that secretly slid open, but as the servants bore the palanquin out onto the street, they were confronted by a small band of armored horsemen wearing the white badge of the Minomoto. These pulled back the strings of their bows, aiming arrows directly at the palanquin. “What despicable noble is this?” growled one of the horsemen.