by Kara Dalkey
Yoritomo thanked the messengers and gave them gifts of horses and bolts of silk. But as the celebratory plum wine was passed among the assembled nobles and samurai, Yoritomo found it difficult to join in the revelry.
“That Yoshitsune!” said one of the warrior generals. “What daring! He did what everyone said could not be done. Charging right down the cliff! First he drives Yoshinaka out of the capital, and now he has driven the Heike out of Ichinotani and Fukuhara. If any name is remembered for the defeat of the Taira, it will be Yoshitsune!”
“Perhaps now that Yoshinaka is dead, the title of shōgun will fall upon Yoshitsune,” said another.
This will not do, thought Yoritomo. Our land needs stability and discipline if it is not to fall further into chaos. My impetuous little brother knows nothing of administration. If he should be elevated over me, Nihon will know no peace. I must seek further guidance on what to do.
Excusing himself from the gathering, Yoritomo walked down the long wooden corridor to his prayer room. He shut himself in to the darkened little closet, made obeisance to the image of Hachiman, then took a stick of incense from a wooden box. He noted there were fewer incense sticks than he had remembered. Well, Yoritomo thought, if anyone has used this for some unintended purpose, they will receive a dreadful surprise and, no doubt, well-deserved punishment. I will ask the Shin-In for more when he appears. Yoritomo lit the incense, sat back on his heels, and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Yoritomo picked up the stick of incense, wondering if it had lost its efficacy somehow. He set it aside and lit another. Again he waited, with the same result. His hand shaking, Yoritomo picked up the box and closely examined the incense sticks. Have these been tampered with? Has someone replaced them with false ones? Yoritomo glanced around the tiny chamber, as if he might see a guilty servant hiding in a corner. But he was alone. Very much alone, with no one to guide him.
A Choice is Made
Nii no Ama listened in horror as the messenger from the capital spoke to her and Munemori.
“It is simply this, my lord, Holy One,” said the messenger. “His Imperial Retired Majesty says that if you will return the Taira Emperor and the Sacred Regalia to Heian Kyō, Antoku will be reinstated, peace will be declared with the Taira, and Lord Shigehira will be released from captivity. Naturally, if this Imperial request is not complied with, the In will assume that you wish to continue to be rebels and you will be dealt with accordingly.”
Nii no Ama pressed her sleeves to her face and watched the flickering flames in the firepot that provided the only warmth in the large tent. The cloth tent walls rippled and fluttered in the cold breeze from the sea. She knew the messenger and Munemori were awaiting some word from her, but she could not speak.
“Leave us,” Munemori said, at last, to the messenger. “We must consider the matter.”
“Very well. But be aware, my lord, that His Imperial Retired Majesty wishes a reply soon.”
“I understand,” Munemori said, coldly.
The messenger departed and Nii no Ama felt Munemori’s hand on her arm. “Mother, this is an offer we must consider.”
Nii no Ama gasped out, “Do you think I am not aware of this?” She tried to recall Shigehira’s face. With so many children, taken from her care often at a young age to nursemaids and other relatives, their name changed at adulthood, or marriage or receipt of a prestigious position, it was sometimes difficult to remember them. It was the strange way of mortals in this land to use children as political go stones, moving them wherever it was advantageous. Very few sons of noble or warrior houses, if they were not Ason or heir, grew up in the same house as they were born. Shigehira had been her fifth son, and Nii no Ama seemed to recall a bright-eyed little boy who loved to catch crickets. And now she had to choose whether he should live or die.
“We have lost so many already,” Nii no Ama whispered, feeling a tear run down her cheek.
“This is so,” said Munemori. “And yet, can we trust Go-Shirakawa to keep his word? I did not return the regalia before because without them, the Taira cause was lost. If I return them now, what will we have gained? I am certain Antoku would not be allowed to stay on the throne long—he will be retired almost as soon as he reenters the capital.”
“Go-Shirakawa would not harm his grandson,” said Nii no Ama.
“No, but that does not mean he would let the boy rule when another grandson has been chosen. As soon as he has the regalia, the In may do whatever he wishes. He might arrest us, and execute me for treason. He might yet kill Shigehira.”
And we would lose the chance, thought Nii no Ama, to return Kusanagi to my father, The Dragon King. And the land will sink deeper into war, never knowing peace.
“I had a dream last night,” Munemori went on. “Father appeared to me, surrounded by the burning flames of the Nether Regions. He told me that the torments of Hell were terrible, but worse yet was the torment of knowing the fate of the Taira. He … cursed me, and said he was ashamed of ever making me the Chief of the Taira clan.”
“I regret that Kiyomori’s soul did not achieve the Pure Land,” said Nii no Ama, “but it could not have been expected, given how he lived. I have prayed for him, at times, yet I knew there was little hope for him. He is hardly one to judge you.”
“But he is right,” said Munemori, sounding on the verge of tears himself. “If I surrender the Emperor and the regalia, then the Taira will be remembered as nothing but a clan of rebels who knew a few moments of glory. The warriors who remain with us wish to fight to the last. They say the Minomoto have risen from near extinction to great power. Surely we Taira can do the same. At this point, I do not see how it is possible to achieve any victory. But if we bow down to Go-Shirakawa, then any hope for the Taira is lost for certain.”
“Then it would seem,” said Nii no Ama, “that your choice is made.”
“I wish to have your agreement, Mother.”
Nii no Ama clutched her hands into fists and held them tight against her stomach. “Tell His Majesty no. We will not return the regalia.”
“Shigehira is a warrior, Mother. He has always been aware that he might give his life for his clan. I am sure he will understand.” Munemori departed to summon the messenger again.
Nii no Ama burst into tears. In her heart, she said good-bye to the little bright-eyed boy who liked to catch crickets.
The Traveling Monk
The following day Taira Munemori walked the sands of Yashima, deep in thought. It was warm for a day late in the Second Month, but the clouds on the horizon promised rain or snow to come. Sunlight sparkled on the sea like false gold.
By now, all those Taira ships that could reach Yashima had returned, and they were far too few. So many lost, thought Munemori, brothers, cousins, nephews. Some of them boys no older than fourteen, who had shown great promise as warriors and died valiantly. Munemori had hardly been able to sleep at night for the weeping of the women in their tents.
He wondered if the decision to continue to defy Go-Shirakawa had been wise. Certainly it was what Kiyomori would have done, and so long as Kiyomori had lived, the Taira fortunes had risen.
A couple of his samurai came running up. “Lord Munemori. We have found a monk wandering past our camp. He says he has come from the capital. He may be a spy. Shall we execute him?”
Munemori was about to give assent, when he paused. “What temple is he from?”
“He says he is from Kuramadera, my lord.”
“Hm. If we ever hope to return to the capital, we cannot risk insulting so powerful a temple. Bring him to me.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Munemori waited and soon a small, shaved-headed monk wearing the white robes of a pilgrim was brought before him. “Who are you?” Munemori demanded.
“No one of importance, O Lord of the Taira” said the monk, bowing.
“Why have you come to Sanuki Province, O Person of No Importance?”
If the monk felt any
insult at the comment, he did not show it. “I have come seeking the grave of the former Emperor known as Sutoku, also called the Shin-In.”
Munemori blinked, surprised. Warily, he asked, “Why would anyone come seeking the resting place of the Emperor who became a demon?”
“That is precisely the reason, Lord Munemori,” said the monk. “It has been said for many years now that the troubles in our land are due to the unquiet spirit of Sutoku. But I have been charged to perform a rite over his bones that will cause his ravaging soul to leave this world and move on to his next turn of the Wheel. Perhaps it will bring peace to Heian Kyō at last.”
And perhaps keep the Shin-In from helping the Minomoto any further, realized Munemori. He still harbored anger that the demon Emperor had deserted him. Here was a small chance for vengeance. To his samurai, Munemori said, “This monk is on a holy and appropriate mission. Let him continue his pilgrimage. In fact, I order you to assist him. Go to all the villages in Sanuki and ask where the bones of the Shin-In lie. See that this monk is able to perform his rite without interference. Treat him well and escort him safely off the island when he is finished. Bring me a report when he has gone.”
“Hai, my lord,” said the samurai, slightly bewildered.
The monk smiled. “Surely you are inspired by Fudō himself, Lord Munemori. I and my temple thank you.”
“Offer prayers for the Taira,” said Munemori, “and I am thanked enough.”
Three days later, Munemori received word that the grave of Sutoku had been found. It had been easy to find, in fact, as no living thing had grown upon the mound in all the years since the Shin-In had been buried there. The common folk of the village where the Shin-In had spent his last days all knew the spot and gladly helped the monk with his ritual. As soon as the monk was finished, it was said, the unwholesome smell that had always hovered over the grave vanished, and a golden light was seen ascending into the sky.
At the Tsuruga Shrine
What do you mean, he is gone?”
“I am most humbly sorry, Lord Yoritomo. But I have prayed and fasted and spoken to the kami. And I was told the soul of the Shin-In has departed from this world.”
“Have I not sent you enough horses? Have I not sent gold and silver for every festival day? Why do you jest with me?”
“Please calm yourself, Lord Yoritomo. It is no jest. Great Hachiman himself appeared to me seated upon a white horse standing on a lotus. He said the Shin-In is gone, and you are well off without such an advisor.”
“You must be mistaken in what you have heard.”
“I remember it very clearly, my lord.”
“But the Shin-In told me nothing, no hint that he would be departing, no words of farewell.”
“The kami intimated that the Shin-In’s departure was not … voluntary.”
“Who could have done such a thing? Who has such power?”
“It is not power, but knowledge and will that would accomplish it. Any of the major shrines or temples of Heian Kyō could have done so, once they thought of it.”
“And I dare not chastise any of them, for I need their goodwill. What will I do now? Yoshitsune grows more popular with the nobles and the Retired Emperor every day.”
“I am sure, with all your excellent wisdom, you will think of something, Lord Yoritomo.”
An Imperial Audience
Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa watched from the verandah of Rokujō Mansion with great pleasure as the oxcart adorned with the crest of eight lotus leaves was pulled through the main gate. Twenty samurai on horseback, their armor gleaming, accompanied the carriage. One of the riders was a huge fellow with an unruly beard who carried an ax on his back. The oxen, all well matched with black hides, were unhitched from the carriage, and the front door of the carriage opened.
Yoshitsune stepped out of the carriage, wearing a red brocade hitatare that matched the color of the autumn maple leaves that lined the courtyard. The riders dismounted—three of them removing drums from the saddles of their horses. As these warriors began to beat upon the drums, Yoshitsune began a ceremonial dance, celebrating his receipt of the honor of entering an Imperial residence. With quick, sure grace, Yoshitsune waved his sword and baton. With amazing agility, he leapt and postured as if battling imaginary foes. Then, his dance completed, Yoshitsune continued to twirl the sword and baton as he stepped smartly up the stairs of the main entrance to Rokujō, followed by the drummers and the other warriors in a jaunty parade.
At the top of the stairs, the sword was politely taken from him and Yoshitsune was escorted into Go-Shirakawa’s presence. Yoshitsune went to one knee and bowed low.
“That was magnificent!” said Go-Shirakawa. “I am glad the Amida has allowed me to live so long as to see such performances again.”
“I wished only to demonstrate, Majesty, what a great honor it is you give me to allow me to come into your home, and to greet you in this fashion.”
“I am glad that I may permit you this honor, Yoshitsune-san, after all you have done for the throne.”
“I only wish my illustrious brother would permit me to do more, Majesty.”
“I am sure he will, in time,” said Go-Shirakawa. “Please sit and be comfortable.”
Yoshitsune sat down on a silk cushion as gracefully as a cat. Go-Shirakawa envied the young man’s supple joints and sinews. “I must confess,” Go-Shirakawa went on, “that I am grateful to your brother for allowing you to stay on in the capital. I had feared losing your refreshing company and your skills in defending the city. Many are the bands of ronin wandering the hills above Heian Kyō, ready to swoop down upon us should the capital be left undefended.”
“This is well understood, Majesty,” said Yoshitsune, “and no matter what should occur, I assure you that I will do everything in my power to see that you and His Imperial Majesty Go-Toba remain well guarded.”
“That is reassuring, Yoshitsune-san. Have you any further news from your brother Noriyori in his attempts to engage the Taira?”
Yoshitsune hesitated. “Majesty, matters are not as smooth as we hoped they would be.”
“But he was given the mandate months ago. I watched him depart myself this summer with thousands of men. Yet I have heard of no victories, other than little skirmishes. What has happened?”
Yoshitsune stared at the floorboards of the verandah. A red maple leaf, blown by an errant autumn breeze, slapped against his face and stuck there, as if a blush of shame. Yoshitsune reached up slowly and took the leaf from his cheek and turned it over and over in his hands. “Majesty, the countryside has not yet fully recovered from the famines of the past two years. The rice fields are now producing, but the farmers are keeping whatever they can. Many horses have died from hunger, leaving our warriors without proper mounts. And along the Western Sea Road, many still support the Taira and do not wish to give aid to our clan. Noriyori is waiting in Suo Province, in the far west of Honshu, hoping that he will someday have enough men and provisions to take Kyūshū. But so far, that day has not come. He has begged my brother to send horses and supplies. But because those supplies would have to travel down the Western Sea Road, and the Taira are still encamped at Yashima just a few li across the water from that road, a supply caravan could be attacked and robbed of such provisions long before they could reach Noriyori.”
“And meanwhile,” said Go-Shirakawa, “the Taira have the chance to regroup their forces. This delay is unconscionable.”
Yoshitsune closed his eyes. “Your pardon, Majesty. If I had been sent, I would have routed the Taira forces by now.”
“Hm. Perhaps I will send word to your brother that the mandate should be given to you.”
“I would be most gratified if you would do so, Majesty. I promise I would not fail you.”
Kamikaze
Kenreimon’in rocked back and forth, sitting on her sleeping pallet. She had awoken yet again from fitful dreams. She could hear other ladies and servants snoring or weeping in the rough, rapidly built structur
e that had become the Yashima Imperial Palace. The night was still and moonlight shone in through a hole in the roof near a central support beam. The moonlight gently bathed the face of the sleeping Antoku in a white glow, as though he were a bosatsu come to Earth from the Pure Land. Just beside the sleeping Emperor were the boxes containing the Jewel and the Mirror and the rack on which hung Kusanagi.
Spring had passed into summer which had passed into autumn and winter on Yashima. Each month brought more sorrows. In early summer, the Taira had learned that Koremori, despondent at the loss at Ichinotani, had taken monk’s vows and thrown himself into the sea. The court of Heian Kyō had chosen again to change the era name to Genreki, to show the change of the tide of fortunes. In late summer, the Minomoto had positioned themselves between Yashima and Kyūshū, making reinforcement from the far island difficult. Through autumn, the Taira learned of traitors to their clan who were being elevated in rank and given the lands and properties the Taira had abandoned. And as the year turned, they had learned that Minomoto Yoshitsune, the bane of Ichinotani, was amassing forces across the strait from Yashima, at Watanabe.
Kenreimon’in did not fear for herself. She had lost interest in her own life after fleeing the capital. But she did fear for her son. Antoku was the only reason she wished to remain living. Wrapping her thick winter kimonos tighter around her, she watched the cold winter moonlight travel across his peaceful face.
Her dreams had not been peaceful. She had seen, over and over, a mass of Minomoto warriors riding across the sea, their horses able to gallop across the water as if it were dry land. A draft blew in under the bamboo blinds, setting the sword rack to rocking. Kenreimon’in reached out to steady it, lest it fall on the sleeping Emperor. Her hand fell on the hilt of Kusanagi.