The Disfavored Hero

by Jessica Amanda Salmonson

  “Love blinded me before,” said Keiko. “But now I see too well.”

  Tomoe answered, though it took a toll to speak. “Then see your husband standing there, old Keiko.”

  Her head turned slowly, ears scanning the courtyard. It did not take much effort to hear him, for the rokubu began to laugh.

  “Old woman!” said the rokubu contemptuously. “I thank you for your sundry efforts on my behalf! Today I prove myself this earth’s most mighty wizard. Even the tides of the ocean—even the Dragon Queen—bow to my will!”

  He flung a fiery shuriken at the blind woman. The metal star shone and sparked and struck Keiko in the throat. It was a killing wound. When Toshima turned away, sickened, Tomoe eased the Lady by telling her in a raspy voice, “The rokubu is madder than the madwoman. A mortal goddess slain becomes immortal once again.”

  Keiko began to change. Her eyes cleared. The wrinkles of her face and hands began to smooth. Her wild grey hair and gossamer white whiskers became glistening black. Her young, strong hands reached to her neck so that slender finger could dig out the shuriken and toss it on the ground.

  The goddess began to grow, until she towered over all within the courtyard. Her clothing had changed from rags into something shimmering and glorious, half akin to a wedding kimono, half similar to the court robes of women in the Celestial Kingdoms. She might have been a famous beauty, this giantess above them, except that her eyes were flat and lidless like those of a fish. She gazed down at the little people: dead jono priest and mourning jono priestess within a translucent bell, wounded samurai and strengthened courtly lady—but especially she gazed upon the rokubu who now effaced himself before the towering woman. He quivered with fright, and begged mercy more vehemently than he had boasted power.

  “Foolish husband,” said the incredible goddess, and the island quaked beneath her voice. Smaller Mountain spat ash.

  Tomoe was less interested in this drama than in Noyimo, whom the samurai watched with unreadable expression. Noyimo let the pink glowing barrier fade, and with it went her brother; for magician-ninja had no funeral rites and their bodies were always destroyed by magic. It was part of their cult and custom, to keep their identities even beyond one life. When the barrier had vanished, Noyimo ran across the courtyard, behind the feet of the giant goddess, and came to the side of Tomoe. For a moment, the eyes of a Lady and those of the masked magician-ninja met across a samurai, and a host of conflicting feelings flashed between them: jealousy faded into understanding, ignobility into truce, envy into admiration, anger to concern.

  “She needs help,” said Noyimo, and Toshima nodded. Noyimo said, “Tomoe, I think I can make you strong for a while, until we can get you to the onna-no-miko …in time, we pray, to heal you.”

  Tomoe gazed between the two women, not at either of them directly. Her forehead was drenched with sweat, though her body shook with chill. She said, “I am too good to die.” Noyimo placed one hand below Tomoe’s breasts, the other on her back, and made a spell to halt the worst of Tomoe’s pain, bleeding, loss of strength and progress of deterioration. Noyimo said, “We must hurry. Keiko is taking her island back into the sea.”

  The samurai crawled upright on her knees, and took up her sword where the last shambler had dropped it. Toshima darted away and back, giving the samurai the sword’s sheath. Aided to left and right by the two women, Tomoe stood uncertainly, her legs oddly fluid. They hurried toward the gate of the mainwall, not taking time to look where the rokubu continued to cower and grovel at the feet of a goddess.

  The three women came to the top of a rise, beneath the smoke-shrouded heaven. Beyond, they saw the would-be farmhouse already taken by the sea. Noyimo was disturbed, and said, “That was our route of escape. I could leave on my own, but the two of you must use a door to obtain the invisible path.”

  The house collapsed as huge waves clutched at it, dragged it beneath white, frothy waters. The women looked back at the city, saw its ruins in the lower lands, saw the inrushing sea filling the valley, saw even the tiny figure of the rokubu before the gigantic Dragon Queen.

  Keiko was changing again. She turned into a dragon, reared upon her haunches. Fire shot from her nostrils, and burned the rokubu to ash in a single breath. Then the dragon swung her fierce head and wailed a kind of regret. She flung her tail about, destroying what buildings had not already fallen into rubble.

  Smaller Mountain grumbled displeasure, and Toshima shouted above the din, “There is another entry to the invisible path. In Keiko’s cave.” She pointed at Taller Mountain, where the maw of a cavern could be seen far up the side.

  “Can you make it?” Noyimo asked of Tomoe, who nodded vaguely, still not looking at either woman.

  They took to the higher peak of the island. Behind them, the Dragon Queen had knocked over the walls of her city, as the sea rushed in. She dragged her tail after herself and took to the forested land between the two peaks. There, the flames of her breath lit the trees. Lava poured from Smaller Mountain’s crown, and the ground was split asunder by the quakes. The Dragon Queen writhed as though defeating an invisible foe, and the waves of the sea came higher, into the forest, dousing the fires and raising steam. The sea lapped with loving devotion at the oily, rainbow scales of the Dragon Queen.

  Swiftly, the island was going down.

  Upward they struggled, clinging to rock and bush. Toshima gave no complaint, though at climbing she had little skill, and the mountain dealt her numerous minor wounds. Noyimo progressed with the least effort, drawing the other two upward with her dark, tangible power. Tomoe went with a lumbering lack of speed, slowing the steep procession.

  The samurai spoke no more. Noyimo’s spell had erased pain, and had halted the progress of physical deterioration. But it did not heal, did not strengthen except by illusion; and Tomoe’s flesh, if not her mind, knew it had been abused. Therefore the samurai was forced to focus all attention to the task of staying above the rising waterline. Little else existed for her, beyond this simple quest, and she forced her way on.

  Keiko had left a rope hanging from her cave’s entrance. It hung over the steepest access. This rope helped the three women gain entry, barely before the water had gained the same height. Already, Smaller Mountain had fallen below sea level, continuing to erupt beneath the steaming, boiling waves. Taller Mountain was the barest isle, itself inevitably to be drawn under. Of Keiko the Dragon Queen, there was no longer evidence. She, too, had returned to the land called Neinya, her home upon the ocean floor.

  Rocks cluttered the back of the cavern, where Keiko in her mortal guise had blocked the invisible path. Lady Toshima and the jono priestess heaved and dragged the rocks from the way, but Tomoe Gozen stood uselessly and teetered on weak legs. She was scarcely aware of the other two.

  A thin trickle of water seeped into the recesses of the cave, while outside the sea bubbled and churned and made an awful, threatening racket. Tomoe felt herself snatched by well-meaning hands, drawn by her shoulders into a cold, dark, uncomfortable place. There was silence.

  Noyimo alone could guide them. It was a timeless place, so that none of them could be sure how long they walked the invisible path. Noyimo’s dark robes seemed to shine like some sort of impossible black ice. Toshima followed this blue-tinged, darkling lightedness. She pulled Tomoe along.

  As the rokubu had never aged while upon the path, so was Tomoe Gozen preserved against her terrific wound, more fully than by Noyimo’s transient spell. If it were true, as it later seemed, that they spent many days on the path, none were the worse for it, having had no need of food or drink, and having wearied no further. But Tomoe, at least, was no better for it either.

  It was a tedious venturing, the sameness of the empty universe broken only twice. First was near the place where the rokubu had put secret doors in the house Keiko made. The house had been destroyed by the sea, but the rokubu’s strange door had not yet come undone. The ocean bulged onto the invisible path at these spots, shedding greenish light, but could
not fully enter. Within these trespassing bulges there swam curious, loathly fish with smiling lips and lanterns on their noses. The second thing that provided an interlude to the tedium was a space littered with a vast number of corpses: the slaughtered shamblers and fliers which had returned after death to their nowhere-place, and the burnt, twisted body of the rokubu. Noyimo led a careful trail between these drifting, weightless corpses, leery of brushing against the foulness they encompassed.

  Beyond those two observances, they saw nothing, felt only the cold. Yet, Noyimo at least seemed certain of the route. An unguessable amount of time elapsed when Noyimo finally stopped, turned to reveal her shining face, and said to the other two, “Through here is a jono temple on Nogoshi Hill overlooking Kamakura.”

  She indicated a spot, and though there was nothing there to see, her voice held certainty. Tomoe’s vague awareness surfaced at the promise of passage to Naipon. Toshima led Tomoe to the spot Noyimo had indicated, and directly, all three women vanished from the invisible path.

  Somewhere in Tomoe’s lowered consciousness, a promise was made: a promise never to enter the invisible path again, whether she lived a long life or one more day. Yet, much as she despised the path, she was pleased it had brought her home.

  From Nogoshi Hill, she could see the city of Kamakura stretched below, reaching from Hochiman Shrine in the north to Yuigahama Beach. Along the beach, warjunks were harbored; yet none would have guessed Kamakura’s flowered streets provided comfort to a military regime. It was too beautiful. The long, narrow city filled the shallow valley with its widely spaced castles and its more closely built mansions along uncrowded boulevards. Even the hovels were works of artisans, as the poorest of Kamakura were famed for their pomp and glamour and lordly gait. The Shogun placed great store in an appearance of beauty, peace, and comfort. Strength alone was understated.

  “Follow,” said Noyimo.

  Nearby was a black temple. Noyimo said, “None but I could authorize your sanctuary in the jono temple; generally, none leave such a place until they are fully trained to the cult. Or they never leave at all. Even I must abide by certain restrictions, to take you within. You must trust me. I will take you blindfolded to a place inside that is comfortable, and you will not wander from it without my assistance, or it will mean your lives. Whatever you hear, whatever you smell, whatever you feel or fear—make no sound. Do not raise the cloth from your eyes. Our secrets protect more than ourselves—so you must never question these directions.”

  Serious though the warnings were, Tomoe required no blindfold after all. Noyimo’s spell had worn away, and the samurai collapsed from loss of blood.

  She dreamed of safety.

  EPILOG:

  Duel At Heiji Castle

  For three days, Tomoe Gozen was nursed by onna-no-miko, women healers. They chewed medicinal plants and spat the stinging substances in her wounds. They placed the skins of mudfish on the rents at her front and back. They forced her to eat a soupy concentrate which birds had partly digested. They manipulated muscles, organs, circulation, and the eight senses by applying the tips of their fingers to learned points of the body. These measures, and others, were handed down from mother to daughter since antiquity; much of their craft was guarded secret, not because it defended their station, but because their craft could be misused.

  After those three days, the samurai’s health was stable, and the wounds had closed properly. Yet, Tomoe Gozen did not awaken in all this time, and the onna-no-miko wished to discover why.

  It became necessary for one of the healers to enter Tomoe’s mind, to walk with her through paradisiacal dreams. If a dreamwalker could prove to the dreamer what was false and what was objective, Tomoe would eventually recognize the velvet darkness of the chamber as reality, and the sunlit valley of her unconsciousness as fictive.

  Because the land of her dream was pleasant, it was difficult for the dreamer to let go. Tomoe favored the sunny hill and meadows over the gloomy chamber in the jono temple. In the temple, there were eerie sounds, and black-cloaked novices of excessively serious mien; whereas in the valley, which she had built with her own intellect, there were chirruping insects and singing birds and a peacefulness which inspired.

  Tomoe sat alone on the green hill’s side, grinning foolishly at Amaterasu who, on this land, never set.

  Unexpectedly, one of the onna-no-miko joined her, sat beside her, said, “I am told you once lived in the illusions of a ghostly stone city.”

  “I did that,” said Tomoe.

  “I am told you once fought your way from hell.”

  “Or to it, if I believe a Buddhist nun.”

  “I am told you battled oni devils in the dream of Izanami.”

  “That, too, is true.”

  “Then you must help me understand how it is you have not yet learned to discern, and overcome, illusions.” The onna-no-miko indicated the green country with a sweep of her hand.

  Tomoe looked at this intense woman, who was barely more than a child; too young, thought Tomoe, to be a skillful healer and dreamwalker.

  “It is a pretty dream,” said Tomoe. “And unlike those others you mention, this one is of my own creation. Why should I destroy it? Should the gods destroy Naipon?”

  “It will all come undone in any case, when your flesh returns to death. Your body lies hot and dying. Your organs are bruised and traumatized, but it is nothing courage cannot cure.”

  Tomoe was unmoved.

  “If not of yourself, samurai, think of others,” the young healer continued. “Think of a jono priestess who believes your life is worthwhile. Think how you have sworn service to Lady Toshima, Lord Shigeno’s heir. Think of the Shogun’s samurai who pines for his equal in battle. Think of a very young onna-no-miko, who will punish herself if she fails.”

  The samurai looked away, into the distance where hills rose and fell like gentle waves. She said, “I would like to know what lies beyond each rise.”

  She gazed happily over the dreamland.

  The onna-no-miko hid her disgust poorly, then stood, then walked away. Tomoe did not watch her go.

  Toshima was in the dream. No. She was not. She was in the black velvet room. There was warmth. Comfort. But there was an uninviting strangeness as well: the weird chanting of jono novices in adjoining chambers, some of whom might never see the light outside the temple should they fail to master the jono arts acquired—the comings and goings of various folk by entries and exits unfathomable—the noisy static of formalized magicks, or sorcerous kata sets practiced by diligent yet unproficient wizardlings just as samurai children practiced with bamboo swords—the shuffling of beasts and the rattling of chains in the haunted spaces behind every wall—but most disconcerting to Tomoe Gozen was the sound of Toshima’s crying. Tomoe tried to flee back into the sweetness of the dream, because her body ached, and because it hurt to hear Toshima weep. A sick samurai felt tears drop upon her pale, knotted fingers; and she flinched imperceptibly.

  An older healer was nearby, not the youth who had previously invaded Tomoe’s dream. The mature, nurturant voice counseled a distraught Toshima. “Life is delicate,” she said. “A silkworm’s slender thread is all that holds us to one life and from another. Strong as silk can be, a good knife will always cut it.”

  Toshima found no comfort in this. She argued, “Tomoe Gozen is stronger than you suggest.”

  There was a weight of sorrow in the healer’s voice when she said, “Few are the lives to equal in fragility the lives of samurai.”

  Toshima relented, and confessed, “I suspected she was frail.”

  “It is properly so,” said the healer. “Things which are frail survive. They bend as the willow bends. They bow. They serve. If Tomoe Gozen is afraid to live, it is because she cannot serve. A samurai requires a master, or to no one will she bow.”

  A cloaked jono novice came into the velvet room by secret means and blindfolded the healer who was saying, “There is nothing more the onna-no-miko can do. We will come no more
.” She allowed herself to be led away quietly. Toshima was left to sit beside Tomoe upon the floor, pondering the healer’s advice. After a while, she leaned forward, whispered to the samurai, “The healers say courage can heal your injuries. I know you are courageous. Why do you not waken?” Eyes moved beneath closed lids. Toshima spoke softly, “We took liberties with each other, on the Dragon Queen’s island, when our destinies were torn from beneath us by a sorcerous rokubu. Now, we must recall our stations. I am master of a samurai. I will be mistress to none but Shigeno Valley. It will be difficult to rebuild and hold my land; but I have a strong retainer, who is a hero, and others will join us. Is this not so? You cannot die without my leave to do so. You can only die for your master.”

  Tomoe’s tightly knotted fists relaxed, but her eyes still would not open.

  Tomoe gazed once more upon the verdant valley, which was changing to something less refined. The fields were turning to mire, with the blood of a peasant population, of eight thousand samurai, of the thick fluids of ghouls. Amidst torn woods stood the skeletal remains of a burnt, charred mansion.

  The ideal country had become ruined Shigeno Valley. Had she lost control of her previously pleasant dream, or had this always been the place of her most introspective quest?

  It was a terrible valley, but it had not always been so. It need not remain so. A castle could be built where the mansion had been. A moat could be dug around it, wider than an arrow’s range. Bridges could be made across the moat, and across the rivers which fed it. If peace would not come to Naipon, then overlords must fortify their holdings. Shigeno Valley needed a fortification of obvious merit, a castle whose peaks rivaled the distant peaks of mountains, to stand against the thousand treacheries which befall a “weak” lord.

  Lady Toshima was not weak, but that would need to be proven. Given her fine perversity, she would never strengthen her holdings by gainful marriage. The cleverness of the Lady was doubtless sufficient to the task set before her. But without many strong samurai, the best decisions would be difficult to enforce. Tomoe Gozen had been selected as chief among those samurai.