The Disfavored Hero

by Jessica Amanda Salmonson

  There were no more comers, but Ushii could not see this through the red haze of his bloodlust. He fought on, repeating his last maneuvers: the crimson-stained sword slashed upward, bore left, slashed down, reached behind and swung around—all through air, all to naught. He cut and lashed and endeavored to kill the ghost who haunted him, the ghost of Ushii Yakushiji as he once had been.

  One magician-ninja appeared from amongst the corpses. Perhaps he had been lying down, pretending to be dead. He stood to bar Ushii’s crazed passage, raising his arms so that the grey robes draped down. A brilliant light flashed between his hands, and Ushii threw an arm across his eyes to fend off blindness.

  “Ushii Yakushiji,” the Priest said, “I command you to be as you were before madness.”

  When Ushii lowered his arms from his face, he looked around at the eight thousand dead and the half-living travesties which fed. He covered his eyes again, and wept.

  “My spell will not hold you long, so be heartened that you may soon again hide your sorrows behind a wall of insanity. I have come to tell you that Tomoe Gozen is free, and now you will do what you must do.”

  A second magician-ninja stepped out from behind the other, as though the first had multiplied himself, but his duplicate was a woman. She pointed to the ground near her feet and said, “Here, in ancient times, there was a well.” Between the two magician-ninja the soil fell away to reveal a deep, black hole, perfectly round. “The well once gave fresh water, but became accursed so that it had to be hidden until this moment. Its waters had been siphoned into hell.”

  The priest said to Ushii, “Only you, Ushii Yakushiji, can deliver the monsters to their own land once more.”

  From his armor Ushii withdrew the corked vial, held it to the last moment of visible sun, Amaterasu-on-the-Mountain. “With this?” he half stated, a moving yellow light streaking his face. The holy man and woman nodded as one.

  Ushii bit through the brown wax, pulled the cork with his teeth, and spilled the contents in his mouth. He knew the potion meant death, for Lord Huan intended it to be used only as the final resistance, should victory come to doubt. Victory was Huan’s; Ushii’s mission was fulfilled without this extra magic. And now that Ushii was rational, he knew that with or without fealty to Lord Huan, there could be no honor gained. If Tomoe were safe, he reasoned, then Ushii Yakushiji need concern himself no more with the honor of giri, or duty to his master. He could act instead upon the honor of his personal ninjo, the conscience which told him he must not do what Huan desired, but what the magician-ninja directed.

  The two magician-ninja watched him, and they were his ninjo too; like spies, they always spoke truth, the truth that others would have unsaid. A jono priest or priestess sees through lies and illusion, through madness and sorrow. They saw to the heart of Ushii Yakushiji—and he would have been pleased to know they found something good there.

  He felt the power of the fluid coursing through his veins almost before it was swallowed. The jono priest took the empty vial and put it in his robe, perhaps intending to study the traces. Ushii experienced a peculiar sensation of strength building, felt it tense and then relax his every bone and muscle. He looked at his hands and his sword, to see how much he had changed.

  He turned to walk among the carrion and its eaters, making hoarse commands in a guttural, homely speech. The ghouls bowed to him as though he were a devil-god, and most of them obeyed, for he was bright and golden.

  This is all that Tomoe saw:

  The same golden warrior who had drawn Tomoe from hell presently walked beneath a sky of pink fading into bronze. He herded the ghouls as if they were strange, clumsy geese and he their holy gooseherd. He waved his shining sword like a gooseherd’s flag, and the ghouls were urged toward a hole which looked like the blackest shadow of night without stars, without hope of morning.

  One by one, they slunk into this hole, but not without protest. They pleaded and whined in their most awful manner, groveling at the feet of Ushii the Golden. Some of them were violent.

  The golden warrior swept them onward, and down. He cut them when he must, and they gathered up their parts to continue on.

  There strode the two-headed monster, and one of its heads was that of Shojiro Shigeno as Tomoe had envisioned in the cave—though the other head was not his horse, as Tomoe had embellished. Ushii’s sword barely touched the neck of this stolen head, and there was a look of gratitude on the face of Lord Shigeno when his head fell away and was left behind.

  It looked to be arduous work, to get them all, but none could escape because Ushii could be anywhere in an instant and move them back toward the hole. Some of them were bitter and angry, for they had fought their best, and deserved a rich reward. They growled and champed and tried to fight the golden warrior. One of them grabbed a section of armor and broke its leather thongs so that the armpiece came away in the monster’s twisted hands. Another pulled at Ushii’s legs and managed to remove another segment of armor, while Ushii walked unhindered, dragging the ghoul nearer to its doom.

  Although they worried him as dogs do bones, shining Ushii looked to be without concern. He could not be taken by the ghouls. Yet each time one of them touched him, or tore away a piece of his armor, the glistening golden color of Ushii Yakushiji dimmed a little bit.

  The ghouls took what spoils they could. Their own weapons had turned back to stones, but they carried off steel swords, those who had hands designed to hold them. Some of them took jackets and other clothes, which ill-fitted their homely bodies. One gathered the pony-tails of samurai until Ushii caught the beast and made it throw the prizes down.

  Their numbers dwindled, as they screeched and cried and rushed before the sword, down into the hole, seeping like water into the earth. There was one who wailed pitifully, but was a trickster who leapt upon the warrior’s front and ripped away the armor and underclothing in its desire to tear Ushii’s heart. The strong and muscular chest which had been exposed was somehow impervious to the claws, and Ushii pushed the monster away without effort. It scrabbled toward the hole, kicked in the behind by its golden master.

  The strongest were the last to go, and these jumped up and down and whooped and complained, refusing to be herded into the deep earth. Ushii fought them. They could not bear the light of him, and so could not look at him long enough to win a score. They threw rocks at him, rocks which had once been weaponry, and where these struck, small dark bruises erased the gold. Still Ushii did not reveal any weakening. He offered no quarter, this marred but golden man, fading by slow stages but still glimmering in the falling darkness. He was merciless and compelling. His once faithful army struggled to the last, but in the end made every concession.

  The magician-ninja had not remained. Tomoe had not seen them go, neither their method nor direction. At the last, no ghoul stood on the darkened field of death. There was only Ushii, all his armor torn away and his garments shredded, the gold gone from his body. A thin moon was rising, dimly cloaking the scene with pale, white death. Ushii was pallid as a wraith, naked but for his sword.

  From her distant vantage point, it looked to Tomoe as though Ushii were hunching down into madness, his arms akimbo and his head twisted in a strange way. He looked about with one eye fused shut. He did not see her on the nighted hillside away from the moon’s faint light, though he scrutinized the entire valley of dead samurai.

  With a final victory-whoop, the deformed and maddened Ushii threw his soul into the well and leapt in after. The well closed behind him, and Tomoe Gozen gaped in horror.

  She had lived within these dreary rooms longer than a month and never noticed the pall which hung about.

  Musty arras lined the hall. Grim, alien deities made of black jade glowered with ruby eyes, sitting in nooks wherever the arras were broken. The cells to either side were dark like caverns, or poorly lit by squat, round candles. The place felt haunted, especially now with the servants fled and no one left to deflect the lingering odor of sorcery.

  Tomoe walked
this gloomy hall to its end, hearing nothing alive in the few cells she passed. At the end, she lingered and gazed. There was a large room, with it relief ceiling depicting the invented deeds of Huan, heroic fictions which tickled his delight. There were thick carpets and tapestries which absorbed all sound, within or without. This utterly silent place was at once familiar and not—for Tomoe had been here many times, and yet never seen it with clear eyes.

  Against one wall was a seat too large to use in comfort, but ornately beautiful, made of carved jade and craftworked gold. In the throne sat the sorcerer of the Celestial Kingdoms, shriveled in his clothing. A single, serpentine trail of smoke rose from the brazier before him.

  Even with this one inhabitant, the chamber gave the impression of emptiness, a feeling of spacious, even eternal desolation.

  Huan was locked in a draining trance, breathing slowly, deeply, weakened by the long day of war regardless of the fact that he had not physically moved. He smiled in his slumber, dreaming his dreams of conquest, of power, cloaked in the silvery shadow of these dreams.

  The samurai approached the sorcerer. He did not stir. From the tapestries, carpets and relief ceiling, protective spells licked out and tasted Tomoe Gozen, recognized her flavor, let her be. She gathered the old man up in her arms; he was as long-boned and light as a stork. As she had done many times, she carried Huan to his private cell. There she laid him with tenderness upon the narrow couch. His eyes opened the slightest crack, the pupils large and mismatched. He looked at her with childlike trust, the trust of a baby for its most precious and familiar toy. He closed his eyes again.

  If he thought of anything at all, aside from the dreams of his vanity’s sake, he must have thought the woman was there to guard him through the trio of nights it would take to regain his strength.

  She pitied him, this man of sorcery, who sought to grasp all the world like a ripe peach. He thought himself mighty, but had been manipulated by a greater power like nothing more than a black stone sitting on a gaming board. The stone was moved against the Shogun, never comprehending its place.

  In Huan’s present dream, he might envision himself disposing of the Mikado. From the Imperial Palace in Kyoto he could reach across the Sea of Naipon to harry the coast of Ho, tearing it like a jackal and depleting all Naipon’s resources to reduce the Celestial Kingdoms, ultimately, to gigantic provinces of a comparatively tiny island empire.

  Dream of your mightiness and of undefeated sorcery, thought Tomoe. Dream of your immortal dynasty. Sleep without worry, poor Lord Huan, O sad and evil man. Dream of a puppet warrior at your side when you return to your land in a chariot of gold and iron, conqueror of Naipon and Ho.

  He snuggled against the couch and sighed, sounding as he often did like an old woman, looking to be no one’s threat, unknowing that his sleep would soon be dreamless and final. His knees drew upward toward his stomach. His spidery, long-nailed hands folded near his throat. Tomoe’s sword rose above her head, centered, poised, invisible in the dark.

  Tendrils of sorcery stroked her, in no threatening way, but lovingly. This affection stilled her hands more certainly than would any effort to hold her back by force. The Lord Huan loved her in his selfish fashion, she knew; his magic could do her no harm, for all the terrible way in which he constructed it to keep others out.

  If she could blame him entirely for Ushii’s gruesome fate or for the slaughter of the clans, then his love would disgust her and her sword would fall with ease and pleasure. But the descendant of Shining Amaterasu was the master of this sport, safe in the Imperial City. Tomoe was not certain that the next stones swept from the board would not include herself, and she was full of blasphemous thoughts: she envisioned the Mikado sitting in his austere palace, child of Light in a darkling’s habitat, plotting, conniving, striving to hold or regain power against the military government in Kamakura.

  Yet must she maintain fealty with the Mikado, and pray that never again would her duty to a godling monarch conflict with her duty to the Shogun. Perhaps, after this performance, she could flee to the northernfrontier, and serve both governments equally by fighting the vicious Ainu who vainly, uselessly strove against Tomoe’s dominant race. Perhaps she would retire from the world altogether, to become cloistered in some mountain place. Or she could throw down her sword to be a strolling nun.

  Small as a babe seemed Huan, shrunken like a newborn, curled in upon himself as though the womb were a recent memory. Tomoe was merciful. One swift stroke, and the smiling face did not even move, though the head was completely severed. Still sleeping, dreams fading, Huan’s heart pumped blood to soak into the couch and cover. The tendrils of magic faded like the dream; the haunting was over; and Tomoe Gozen was alone.

  PART II

  The Bakemono’s Curse

  Something tracked the wandering samurai, something or someone vigilant and unseen. Another might have thought it imagination, after turning many times and swiftly only to see nothing. But Tomoe was not given to gross imaginings. She knew that she was watched.

  It began to rain toward evening, when she came to a farmhouse and knocked upon the door. A ragged family of five gathered in the entry and looked her up and down. She was clad well, was Tomoe, not having been on the road so long that her fine kimono and wide hakama trousers were tattered or badly soiled; neither were the bright patterns of the cloth yet faded by the sun nor hidden beneath the dust of travel. Samurai with pride intact were fastidious to a fault. Her longsword was held close to her loin by the narrow obi wrapped around her waist. Her big straw hat was lacquered black, and her face dark beneath it.

  She was magnificent outside their door, she knew, for it reflected in their eyes.

  The samurai stood against the last rays of daylight, an ominous presence, but she smiled at them, and it eased them, and pleased them, and the father said, “Enter, samurai. Enter and be our guest.”

  Pleasant cooking smells had wafted to her earlier, along the road. Within the plain but unsevere farmhouse, the scent of simple fare tempted and overwhelmed. It was a poor family, to be sure, and it would not be unfelt if they fed strangers; but the area had been neither used nor misused by lords or samurai, so this family thought of the higher classes with admiration rather than anxiety, and were honored to share what they had.

  It was a meager meal, but one which Tomoe found completely and extremely adequate. She praised the mother and the daughter who had cooked it, but pleaded that she was full when they offered excessive portions. Tomoe had added her paltry share to the meal, in the form of dried fruit and pickled fish, which was all she had been eating on the road for many days. The pickles especially pleased the family, since this inland country had swamps instead of lakes or sea, and therefore a scarcity of wholesome fish.

  Two of the three children were very young. They crawled in Tomoe’s lap like kittens upon an amazing, patient wolf. Tomoe stroked these youngsters, and jabbered with them, until it was late and they climbed into a loft to pretend slumber and take careful peeks over the ledge. Tomoe sat with the parents and the oldest sister, listening more than speaking, but telling a little of her adventures when poked.

  It was a gracious family, their etiquette somehow resounding with fewer falsehoods than the etiquette of richer households. The warmth of their fire and company calmed her, comforted her, for she had been lately missing comrades dead or far away, and the road had become a lonesome place to tread.

  A few months earlier, she would never have supposed a peasant clan capable of filling such a void of friendship; but the road changed a samurai’s perspective, causing sometimes a dangerous bitterness, and sometimes a deeper wisdom, but always disillusion. The family made her long for a simpler heritage—but her blood was samurai, and she was bound, if not to a master, then at least to her own line.

  Yet even the friendship was illusion. She was a stranger to these friendly folk, an awe-inspiring, transient guest—not kin, not even the same class.

  The eldest daughter looked at Tomoe with
admiration near unto worship. At an appropriate point of conversation, and at her proud father’s insistent prodding, the girl brought forth (with much blushing and seeming reluctance) a fine heirloom halberd. It was a common weapon among girls and women, one which could dismount a warrior entirely, and often best a sword. The daughter held it with care, and had clearly learned from some nearby temple to wield it with skill.

  After a while, the eldest daughter went off to her quarter of the floor and rolled out her mat to sleep. The old father continued to ply Tomoe for more words, and the complacent mother listened and smiled. The daughter, like the younger ones, feigned sleep, though the younger ones had by then given in to weariness. At present, only the eldest among the children secretly listened; and later, perhaps, she dreamed of her halberd or a sword.

  Few samurai came to these parts, unless rich ones who passed quickly without greeting, with their masters or without, never lingering in the poor land, deigning only occasionally to throw some low-value coin to whatever bold child or admiring adult stood watching from well off the road. Tomoe’s willingness to sit with peasants charmed them, boosted their esteem for themselves and for her, although she was virtually a beggar (which they did not notice).

  The fire was left to die low; the rain was a pleasant drumming on the roof; and Tomoe was wishing to be given over to sleep. She was about to hint at this desire, when there came a knock upon the door. The mother scurried to the rap, and slid the door aside. Tomoe and the husband looked on, wondering who would come at such an hour.

  There against the rainy night was a dark and dirty itinerant priest, a rokubu with a bulky wooden Buddha tied by its neck and slung upon his back. The priest was stooped beneath this burden, and looked to have been through many provinces never once setting it down. It was very nearly a part of him, was the Buddha, akin to the bent spine of a hunchback.