Genpei

by Kara Dalkey

  “Bring forward the archers,” Yoshitsune ordered. His best archers, Benkei, Yoshimori, Yoichi came to the prow of the boat. “Let the exchange of arrows begin!” said Yoshitsune. “Aim for their steersmen, if you can.”

  Benkei drew his bow of black rattan that was nearly twice the height of a normal man. He let fly with a simple lacquered bamboo arrow fletched with white crane feathers. The arrow arced high and then vanished in the distance. But from the movement of the men in the oncoming ship, it had clearly hit a target.

  “Excellent, Benkei!” cried Yoshitsune. “Signal them and see if they can do as well.”

  Benkei held up a gold battle fan with a red circle painted in the middle and waved it. He was answered, within moments, as a low droning was followed by a loud thunk. An arrow shaft protruded from the rattan wall behind them.

  “Whose is it? Whose is it?” the archers wanted to know.

  Benkei pulled it out, a bamboo shaft fletched with pheasant feathers. “It reads Nii no Kishiro Chikakiyo of Iyo Province.”

  “Look, they are signaling for us to fire it back at them.”

  Benkei flexed the arrow shaft. “It is too weak for my bow. Let me send another of my own.” He again put an arrow to the string of his enormous bow and let fly. It struck a Taira in the chest, and the man went tumbling overboard.

  The cheers of the Minomoto archers were quickly dashed as a hail of arrows was returned from the Taira. Yoichi screamed as an arrow struck him in the arm. Blood running from his fingers, he withdrew to pull it out. Yoshitsune ran back along to boat to the steersman. “Faster! You must get us closer.”

  The steersman shook his head. “It cannot be done, my lord. Look, we are already moving backwards, under the pressure of the tide.”

  “Then steer to bring us alongside them,” said Yoshitsune, “and we will do with swords what we cannot do with oars.”

  It is taking too long,” said the captain of the foremost Taira ship through gritted teeth to Munemori and Commander Tomomori. “We should have rowed faster, to be at the crest of the tide. It is slipping out from under us.”

  “What does that matter?” asked Munemori. “It has already given us the advantage. See, we have borne down on them, and the enemy has been helpless to steer.” He pointed ahead to where the first ships had grappled and the Taira ships were pressing the Minomoto boats toward Kyūshū. Sunlight glinted off of sword blades and spears, and now and then Munemori could see a gout of red and a warrior falling overboard. Something else caught his eye, and he stared at the open water between the closing lines of boats. Gray bodies were arcing out of the water, flashing in the sun. “What are those?”

  “Dolphins,” said the captain of his ship with furrowed brow. “They are said to be the playthings of the Dragon King. They ride these tides like a child will slide down a snowy hillside.”

  “Are they a good omen?” asked Munemori.

  “Perhaps. Watch their movement. If they turn to run alongside us, it is a good omen. If they dive when they reach us and continue swimming west, then it is a bad omen.”

  The three men watched as the leaping dolphins swam up to their ship … and then dived below, swimming beneath the Taira fleet.

  “It is too late,” said the captain softly. “We have lost. We—” He would have spoken more, but an arrow caught him in the throat, and he fell, choking, at Tomomori’s feet. Tomomori swiftly drew his sword and cut off the man’s head to ease his suffering.

  Others had apparently seen the dolphins as well. To the north, a cluster of ships struck their scarlet banners and put up white cloth. “What is this?” whispered Munemori.

  “I had feared this,” said Tomomori. “It is Shigeyoshi. I thought he had looked fearful and despondent this morning. Now, at the first bad omen, he is turning his colors. I should have cut off his head then.”

  “You cannot kill a man simply for being anxious,” said Munemori, “or we might have lost half our men long ago.”

  “He will tell the Minomoto which of our boats contain the warriors and which do not. Our ruse will be discovered. The enemy will know where to concentrate their forces. It is the end.”

  Another cluster of Taira ships began to collide with one another, their steersmen and oarsmen draped over the sides of their boats, Minomoto arrows protruding from their backs and chests. Unable to steer, the boats were prisoner to every swirling eddy that could catch them.

  The ship Munemori and Tomomori were on heeled to the side for a moment, then rose as if a giant hand were lifting it. The boat began to move backward.

  “The tide is turning,” said Tomomori.

  “If you will excuse me,” said Munemori, “I think I will find a safer ship to board. It would not do to lose the clan chief so soon, neh? It might demoralize our men.”

  “Of course,” said Tomomori, sardonically. “Go as far as you like, it will not matter. I think it is time I headed to the Imperial barque to apprise them of the situation.”

  “Do so,” said Munemori. “That is the wisest thing.” Munemori boarded a small rowboat and commanded the oarsman to take him to the ship farthest back in the armada. But as the oarsman struggled to row against the tide, those ships seemed very far away indeed.

  Yoshitsune, on the other hand, was having one of the best days of his life. Leaving his protective entourage behind, he leapt from deck to deck, now onto railings, now atop roofs, sometimes with naginata and sometimes with wakizashi, he used every art and skill the tengu had taught him. Twirling his spear, he struck down archers before they could loose their arrows. Slashing with his sword blade, he cut off the hands of Taira swordsmen before taking their heads. No Minomoto warrior who saw him could fail to be inspired by his brave example.

  It was not long before Yoshitsune saw the Imperial barque of the Taira not far ahead of him.

  Nii no Ama was startled as a ship bumped up against the Imperial barque. Heavy feet hit the deck and soon the swarthy face of Commander Tomomori appeared in the doorway.

  “What is the news? What is happening?” all the ladies clamored again.

  Tomomori smiled sardonically. “You had best tidy yourselves up, ladies. You are about to meet some remarkable Kantō warriors.” He then stomped away, leaving stunned silence behind him.

  As the attention of the ladies in waiting was directed toward Tomomori, Nii no Ama quietly lifted Kusanagi off its rack and slipped it within her kimonos. She gently took Antoku by the hand and led him to the back of the boat, away from the others. “It is time. Are you ready?”

  Antoku nodded solemnly. “Yes, Obaa-san.”

  “Then make your obeisances. Be quick.”

  Antoku knelt and, joining his small hands together, he bowed to the east, to the Great Shrine of Ise, to say good-bye. Then he turned and bowed to the west, whispering the name of Amida Buddha. Then he stood. “I am ready, Obaa-san.”

  “Then let us go, and you will meet your great-grandfather in his palace beneath the sea.” Nii no Ama reached down and picked up Antoku in her arms.

  By this time, a few of the ladies in waiting had seen them. “Great Lady! Majesty! What are you doing?”

  Nii no Ama turned to them. “I have no wish to remain in this world to be captured. All you who are loyal to our Emperor, follow me.” Pulling up the divided skirts of her underrobe, Nii no Ama ran with all her strength up over the low railing and into the sea.

  The cold water was a shock at first against her face, but she managed to hold tightly on to Antoku. She felt her skin begin to stretch and tighten as her hands became webbed talons, as her kimonos, billowing out behind her, became a long tail. Her jaws elongated, and her teeth grew into fangs. With powerful strokes of her back legs, she dived down and down.

  As the water darkened around her, she took a last look at Antoku’s already dying face. The little boy looked as peaceful as if he were sleeping. But his soul would be traveling on ahead.

  Other dragons swam up beside her, welcoming her with slaps of their tails. Far ahead, far down
below, the dragon that had been Taira no Tokiko saw the lights of her father’s palace beckoning her home.

  Kenreimon’in watched in horror as her mother and son jumped into the sea. Another lady snatched up the box with the Sacred Mirror within it and headed for the railing as well. Arrows from the nearing Minomoto ship struck the woman’s kimonos, causing her to trip and fall forward, dropping the box.

  Kenreimon’in stepped toward the mirror box, but another hail of arrows fell around it. Realizing she had little time, Kenreimon’in turned and ran off the end of the boat as well.

  Perhaps it was because she leapt high into the air before falling into the water. Perhaps it was because she had grown thin and light. But the sea refused to take her. Air was caught in her voluminous sleeves and the folds of her gowns, and the tightly woven silk would not let it free. She floated on the surface like a lotus blossom.

  “No!” cried Kenreimon’in, beating at the air bubbles. “Take me! Take me!”

  Something jammed in her hair and pulled hard. Kenreimon’in screamed and reached up, grabbing the handle of a sea rake. She tried to disentangle herself, but it was no use. She was pulled through the water until she bumped hard against the side of the boat. Men’s arms reached down and hauled her out of the water.

  “No!” she screamed again, kicking and beating at the arms with her fists. “Let me die! Let me die, let me die, let me die!” But it was no use. She was pulled onto the deck like a fish.

  A fair-skinned, mustachioed young man peered down at her. “Who is this?”

  Another voice said, “That is the Imperial Lady. That is the Empress, Antoku’s mother.”

  “Ah!” The young man’s brows raised, and he gave a slight bow. “I am honored, Majesty. I am Minomoto Yoshitsune.” He turned to someone beside him, and said, “Take her below and treat her well.”

  Ashamed by her utter failure even to die with honor, Kenreimon’in covered her face with her sleeves and wailed in sorrow as she was carried away.

  Taira Munemori watched in shocked fascination from a nearby boat as one by one the Taira ladies and warriors leapt into the sea. Commander Tomomori slung an anchor around his neck and dived in, determined to have no chance of survival. His sister, his mother, the Emperor, others. On his own boat, the warriors stared at him in disgust and contempt as they prepared to fling themselves into the water. The railing of the boat was knocked out to make it easier.

  Munemori stared down at the blue water. It looked cold. He could not move. His mind was churning. What would the Shin-In advise? What should I do? But the Shin-In’s spirit was gone, and Munemori suspected his own was gone long ago as well.

  “Oops,” said someone behind him, and Munemori was bumped, pushed into the sea, arms flailing.

  But Lord Kiyomori, having been a man of the sea, had taught all his sons to swim. So Munemori, quite unable to help himself, trod water until the Minomoto ship drew up beside him and hauled him out.

  “Well, what have we here?” said the small, mustachioed young man. “Looks like the biggest fish of all. I had hoped to catch your father this way, but I suppose you’ll have to do.”

  As the Minomoto warriors around him laughed, Munemori was taken below in shame.

  By Carriage Window

  A month later, at midafternoon, on the Twenty-sixth Day of the Fourth Month of the second year of Genreki, Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa ordered his carriage to stop at the side of the street in front of the Rōkujō Palace, now Yoshitsune’s residence in Heian Kyō. He had to know if the reports were true. Secretly, he watched from his carriage window as a particular procession of horsemen surrounding an oxcart drew up before the palace gate.

  The oxen were detached, and a man was led down from the cart. His face was sunken-cheeked and hollow-eyed, but nonetheless Go-Shirakawa recognized him.

  “Ah, Munemori-san. How like my brother, the Shin-In, you have become. But you did not have even the courage that he did, to become a demon. You are only the shadow of one, only the shadow of your former self, only a shadow of the greatness of the Taira.”

  Munemori was led into the gate without ceremony. Go-Shirakawa signaled to his driver to move on. He reflected, as the carriage rolled back toward the Imperial palace, that he had had to see the former Minister of State, the way a mourner needs to view the body of a loved one before it is cremated. To know that the person is truly dead. To know that the war was truly over. To know that the Taira were truly finished, and peace would come to the land again, at last.

  Kamakura

  On the Seventh Day of the Sixth Month, Minomoto Yoritomo sat behind a bamboo screen awaiting the prisoner. It had been suggested by his noble advisors that, now that Munemori had been stripped of rank, he was no longer worthy to be in the presence of the Lord of Kamakura, and therefore should be adressed by lesser men while Yoritomo observed discreetly.

  It had been a strange, otherworldly three months since he had received the news of Dan-no-ura. So many Taira dead, others captured. The little Emperor drowned. The Sacred Sword lost. He had been told the best pearl divers in the land had been hired to search for Kusanagi, but to no avail. What a strange, new time we have entered, he thought. If one of the Sacred Regalia has left us, it is a new world indeed.

  And then, there was Yoshitsune. Yoshitsune, Yoshitsune, Yoshitsune. Yoritomo could not pass a day, an hour, without hearing his brother’s name praised. Already the Retired Emperor had given Yoshitsune new rank, new posts, a new palace, without consulting Yoritomo.

  But not all loved the younger Minomoto. General Kagetoki had sent Yoritomo word of Yoshitsune’s boasting and demand to be the sole commander. And hints that Yoshitsune intended to supplant Yoritomo himself as shōgun. He must be stopped, thought Yoritomo. He had deliberately forbidden Yoshitsune from entering Kamakura when he brought the Taira prisoners up from the capital. But it is not enough, thought Yoritomo. My displeasure must be made more clear.

  The Lord of Kamakura was startled out of his thoughts by the announcement of the arrival of the prisoner. He peered out between the slats of the bamboo blind and saw the shōji slide open.

  “Traitor to the throne, Taira no Munemori,” an official announced, and the prisoner was led in.

  Yoritomo nearly gasped. Munemori was dressed in a simple white ceremonial robe with a black, unfolded cap. But his face … his face was nearly that of the Shin-In. Munemori’s eyes, however, seemed unfocused, his expression vague, as if there was no one there behind the face at all.

  A lowly minister named Hiki no Yoshikazu sat before Munemori and delivered Yoritomo’s message to him:

  “I bear to you and your clan no personal animosity. It was your father’s mercy, after all, that spared me from death and instead sent me into exile in Izu. But I was given an Imperial edict, and therefore was required to attack and defeat your clan. Nonetheless, I honor you as a fellow warrior, and I am pleased that I have this chance to meet you.”

  Yoshizaku bowed and waited for Munemori’s reply.

  But the Taira lord’s reaction seemed bizarre. At first he sat bolt upright, as if a bunraku puppet. Then he fell forward in an obsequious bow, as if Yoshizaku were a greater noble than he was, nearly groveling. When Munemori sat back up, he began to mutter, not words of greeting warrior to warrior, but words of pleading. “I should like to become a monk…. send me far away. Sanuki, perhaps, to write sutras. And pray. If you please.”

  The display was unsettling. If he has his wits, thought Yoritomo, then he is being contemptuous. If he does not, then this meeting is unseemly. Without responding, Yoritomo signaled that Munemori should be escorted out of his presence.

  When the former Minister of State had been removed, Yoritomo wrote out the order for Munemori’s execution. And decided that Yoshitsune should be be in charge of it. The image would not leave Yoritomo’s mind of how Munemori looked like the Shin-In. What would the Shin-In advise, regarding Yoshitsune? wondered Yoritomo.

  The answer came to him as easily as thought itself. He wr
ote out another order, stripping Yoshitsune of his lands and promotions and posts. And then another, secret, decree … ordering Yoshitsune’s death.

  A Final Prayer

  Yoshitsune knelt on the floor near Taira Munemori at a roadside inn along the Tōkkaidō. Together they admired the leaves of the maples in the gardens beside the inn, the leaves turning blood red with autumn.

  Munemori had been an ideal prisoner, if a strange one. He had offered no resistance or contemptuous remarks. Only his strange pleading to become a monk, to copy sutras. Yoshitsune had been tempted to treat Munemori with contempt at first, but found he could not. Now he was only moved to a strange pity, and an even stranger commiseration.

  “It is odd, is it not, Munemori-san, how things turn out. You, doubtless, did your best to protect your clan. Yet here you are, a prisoner, your worldly life over. Although where you shall go from here I cannot say.”

  “True,” murmured Munemori. “Very strange.”

  “I have done my very best to serve my brother,” Yoshitsune went on, “and yet he now seems to despise me.”

  “Despise, yes,” said Munemori. “I tried to serve my father, but he despised me.”

  “So you understand. I had meant to kill your father, you know. It is what I had trained nearly my whole life for. But Fate denied me that satisfaction. Just as you were trained to be a great lord of the mighty capital of Heian Kyō. But Fate has denied you that satisfaction.”

  “Denied,” agreed Munemori.

  “But what can set brother against brother? Should I not be as close to him as father to son? And, surely, our father Yoshitomo knew and loved him for many more years than I. What cause does my brother have to be jealous of me?”

  “Cause,” echoed Munemori. “I was jealous of my brother. He died. Was I the cause?”

  “So you understand, I suppose,” said Yoshitsune, uncertainly. “And now allies of mine in Kamakura have warned me that perhaps I will die as well, from my brother’s jealousy.”