The Disfavored Hero

by Jessica Amanda Salmonson

  “Perhaps you will like your husband,” Azo suggested uneasily.

  “I don’t care to like him,” Tomoe said stubbornly. “My father says he is a powerful warlord: Kiso Yoshinake of Kiso Province. You may have heard of him.”

  “Yoshinake! He is called the Rising Sun General and is known to be fierce in battle. I hope my father plans so well for me!”

  Tomoe made a disparaging sound. Azo said,

  “It is said that the Shogun would not be half as secure if not for Yoshinake. You are lucky if you wed a general favored by the Shogun.”

  “The Shogun favors Yoshinake, but not me. He despises the example I set for other women. Why, then, would he have his most valued warlord marry me? He wants me contained by someone strong!”

  “That is impressive!” said Azo. “I wish I could make a claim like yours. The Shogun does not even know that I exist. Consider yourself fortunate! Bushido is different for women, Tomoe. We must have strong sons.”

  “So! Sons you say! What is wrong with a daughter? I was a fine daughter! What has it brought me?”

  “It has brought you the promise of an excellent marriage with an important warlord,” Azo argued. “It is no worse a mess than Kiso Yoshinake’s. Perhaps he counts himself even more unlucky than you, if he waits to meet you now, and hears you killed your father’s retainers rather than go ahead with a mere meeting.”

  Tomoe was insulted. “He is luckier than me!”

  “How so? Because you could defend his household better than another wife?”

  Tomoe’s face reddened. She said angrily, “Because I can fight at his side across Naipon!”

  “You see? You do want to marry him.”

  “I did not mean that,” she said, and looked away from Azo. She scrunched down into herself, pouting.

  “If you honor my challenge as you are supposed to do,” said Azo, “you will not have to worry about marriage, because I will kill you.”

  “No. I will kill you.”

  Now Azo Hono-o was amused. “You hate your betrothed though you have never seen him, and you say you can defeat me though you have never tried.”

  “I heard your sloppy killing.”

  “Still. I always win.”

  “I won’t fight.” Tomoe was adamant.

  “Then,” said Azo, rising to her feet and drawing her sword, “I will claim your ear as my trophy.” She slashed without hesitation in the direction of Tomoe’s head.

  Her steel met steel instead of ear. Tomoe’s sword had slid from its scabbard with lightning speed. It blocked Azo’s blow then returned to the scabbard. Tomoe had not moved from her sitting position. Azo Hono-o’s eyes were momentarily round. She said, “That was very good! I have never seen it done before. Once more, please?” She made another sweeping approach with her sword. Again Tomoe performed an amazingly swift draw, not even rising to one knee as was usually necessary. She struck Azo’s sword aside without difficulty. Azo said, “Now it is certain we must fight! I must know who is better.”

  “Azo: I defeated the Shogun’s champion. I have survived a dozen terrible wars. I wield steel forged and tempered by Okio, the Imperial Smith, and blessed by the Mikado himself. With it I have slain men and demons. By contrast, you have acquired most of your skills in a dojo; and while your school is of the highest repute, it is never the same as practical experience. If you wish to kill me, do so in five years, when I am older and you are stronger than today.”

  “An insult!” said Azo. “I have distinguished myself in two battles. I’ve killed more men than I remember!” She raised her sword above her head. “I will show you my strength!” She whirled around and sliced toward a squat, thick tree. When her sword was sheathed, the tree began to fall. The trunk was thrice the width of a hand, but had been shorn through effortlessly. The tree fell directly in front of Tomoe. If she was impressed, it did not show.

  Tomoe took two long breaths, then said, “We have chosen the wrong place,” relenting a little. “If you wish so strongly to be killed by me, it must be announced publicly.”

  Azo was delighted. “Excellent! How will it be arranged?”

  “It may take a while,” said Tomoe. “First I must escape my father’s wrath. I can kill his retainers and break no law; but if he comes for me himself, I would be guilty of patricide.”

  “I can help!” Azo promised. “We will trade clothing. Your family seal will cause me to be followed. I will keep my face shadowed under your hat. By the time the error is realized, you can be far away!”

  Tomoe nodded. “A good plan.” Azo began to untie the straps of her hakama. Tomoe doffed kimono.

  “You have gained momentary respite,” said Azo boastfully, trying on Tomoe’s clothing. “Next time we meet, we will fight.”

  “As you say,” agreed Tomoe. “My advice: Practice for that day. Be worthy of the contest.” She finished dressing in Azo’s hakama and short kimono. “Until then,” she said, “farewell.”

  Tomoe rested comfortably on her knees and watched the street from the inn’s upper story window. Beside her an oil lamp glowed within a columnar paper lantern. In front of her on a small black tray was an untouched meal: rice, pickles and braised eggplant, each in different bowls. Her longsword rested on a rack against a wall. Her shortsword was in her obi. She had long since traded Azo’s kimono for a plain one without family seal. She still wore Azo’s cotton hakama, somewhat worn from a month’s hard travel, yet fastidiously clean and pleated.

  She had sent a message to Toshima-no-Shigeno three weeks earlier, explaining her plight and saying she would await Toshima’s instruction at Chogi Inn on a certain date. As Tomoe watched the street, a bare-legged messenger appeared from an alley near the edge of town. He wore a bandana around his head and chin. Over one shoulder he carried a long stick with a letter pinned to one end. Tomoe slid the rice paper window closed. She reached for the bowl of rice and pair of pointed chopsticks and began eating while she waited.

  Several pairs of feet clambered up the steps at once. Tomoe heard the coarse laughter of men and the giggling of geishas. The party entered one of the other rooms. By her keen sense of hearing, Tomoe knew that one of those pairs of feet had not passed by her door.

  The door slid aside abruptly. It was not the messenger standing there, but a burly, cruel looking man with a spear. He grinned wickedly as he charged into the room.

  Tomoe’s longsword was on a rack beyond reach. She raised her right hand to the side of her head, the points of both chopsticks held outward from the knuckles. With a single flick of her hand and wrist, the burly man dropped his spear and began shouting. He grabbed at the chopsticks in his eyes. As he stumbled to his knees, Tomoe’s shortsword silenced him with a quick slash to the throat.

  The bowl of rice was still in her left hand. She calmly set it on the tray. Outside the open door stood the messenger with his carrying stick and the letter. His bare knees were shaking. Tomoe asked,

  “Did you know you were followed?” The messenger shook his head, plopped down on both knees, and crawled forward with the letter for Tomoe. She unfolded it section by section. It was a long piece of paper, but only a small part of it was used. Tomoe read quietly. Toshima’s message was a simple one, agreeing to give the samurai leave of her duties in Shigeno Valley for however long it took to resolve her troubles.

  “I have no letter for you to take back,” said Tomoe, dismissing the messenger. “Please have someone come and clean my room as you leave.” The man looked at the untidy corpse, then at Tomoe. He bowed several times before he stood and backed out of the room. As he turned in the hall to scurry away, Tomoe noticed that his feet were not very calloused for a runner. When she was alone, Tomoe pivoted on her knees and faced the lantern. She held the letter above the warmth of the burning wick. A second message had been written with invisible clear fruit juice. The heat darkened the writing so that Tomoe could read it.

  “You will have realized as quickly as I that the messenger is a spy,” the missive began. “Yet your f
ather’s search has been halfhearted and I think he has forgiven you. The spies serve someone else. I may know who.

  “Since the Mikado returned from exile, the Shogun has been uneasy. The great swordsmiths of Kyoto, our Imperial City, have been commanded to relocate in the Military Capital of Kamakura. Only one smith dared refuse: Okio, the Mikado’s private smith. The Shogun meanwhile favors Okio’s mortal enemy, the giant Uchida Ieoshi of a jealous family of swordsmiths. Uchida was raised to be a warrior so that force might be instigated against competitive smiths. The Shogun will almost certainly overlook any vengeful move against Okio’s small clan at this time.”

  This was sore news, but Tomoe wasn’t sure in what way the swordsmith’s plight affected her own. Toshima’s missive continued, “Those of us loyal to the Mikado are striving to protect Okio. His family has been moved secretly to Isso. Tell no one! But so long as Okio himself remains in Kyoto, he is endangered by his own stubborn resolve. It’s believed that Uchida Ieoshi already has possession of Okio’s ledgers, which were stolen by ninja spies. From the ledgers Uchida gleaned the names of many warriors who carry swords fashioned by the Imperial Smith. One by one, Okio’s fine swords are being located and broken by crafty ninja. Of course this plot necessitates the killing of whatever samurai bear Okio’s weaponry, for none give up their swords willingly.”

  It was clear now what Tomoe’s danger was. She glanced quickly to her sword in the rack—made by Okio and blessed by the Mikado. The letter went on to say, “Take care of yourself, Tomoe! It will be harder for me rebuilding my late father’s holdings without the assistance of your strong arm and manner. But I give you leave with one requirement: If Okio is slain, avenge him. Do so in honor of his craft, and with the mightiness his craft has contributed to your skill.” The letter was signed, “Lady Toshima-no-Shigeno,” the overlord of Shigeno Valley.

  Reopening the window, Tomoe saw far down the street. The messenger disappeared into the same alley he had appeared from earlier.

  A girl came to the door of the room and gasped at the sight of the would-be assassin killed by Tomoe.

  “You let rabble use your inn!” Tomoe complained, rising swiftly to her feet. Her shadow enveloped the wide-eyed girl. Tomoe reached into her kimono sleeve and brought out some coins to pay for her food and lodging. She snapped at the maid, “I will not return!”

  The samurai brushed by the frightened maid; but then she stopped and faced the girl again, apologizing, “Forgive me being peevish. Your inn is a fine one, but I must go.”

  Tomoe Gozen hurried into the street, vaguely annoyed that the day’s killings might not be done.

  The man who had brought the letter to Tomoe moved sideways through a narrow passage between two buildings. Twice he looked back, imagining a pursuer. He came out behind a kimono refurbishing shop, where women workers bleached and redyed clothing. The smell was ferocious. The man grinned amiably and bowed many times as he skirted this industry. The workers paid him little attention. There was a ladder leading to a roof apartment. He ascended this quickly. From the top, he looked left and right at the rest of the tenement neighborhood, a shiver of paranoia at his back. Then he ducked through the opened, undersized door.

  Inside the small apartment it was dark and hot. The stink of the kimono repair shop was dizzying. From a shadow, the dry voice of an old, old man asked,

  “Where is the ronin?”

  The fraudulent messenger looked afraid. He peered toward that darkest shadow of the unlit chamber. The shadow looked hardly big enough to hide a man. Although he saw no one, he replied,

  “Your money was wasted on that masterless samurai. Tomoe Gozen killed him with ease.”

  “What help were you?” asked the dry, accusing voice. “Didn’t you try to kill her?”

  “I did!” the man said. “I tried hard, but she evaded me!”

  “You lie, Shinichi.”

  “I don’t lie!” he insisted. His eyes danced back and forth, looking for a good story. “I stabbed at her with my carrying-stick, but she stepped aside. She drew her sword too quickly, so I jumped out the window. That’s the only reason I survived. I will try again come darkness. You won’t be disappointed!”

  “How will you kill her?” asked the voice in the shadow.

  Shinichi jabbed his stick in front of himself as he said, “Like this! Through her eyes while she is sleeping!”

  “What will you do when she is dead, Shinichi?” the voice asked sardonically.

  “Take her sword and break it!” Shinichi said. “Smash it on a stone!” He made motions with his stick to illustrate.

  “That will please our ‘master,’ Uchida Ieoshi.” The voice did not call Uchida “master” with much conviction or respect. “Every sword of Okio is to be destroyed. Tomoe’s will be hardest to take. You’ll be rewarded if you succeed, Shinichi. If you fail …”

  “I won’t fail! She will soon be on the road again. I will follow close behind. I’ll kill her wherever she camps the night.”

  Throughout this exchange, Tomoe Gozen had been listening outside the small door at the top of the ladder. The furtive Shinichi was no expert and had been easily tracked. Now, Tomoe stepped into the room’s interior and said,

  “Kill me now, Shinichi.”

  Shinichi jumped like a rabbit. Tomoe’s sword swept toward the pitiful hireling, but he moved backward and parried with his pole. He was better with it than Tomoe had expected. She moved forward aggressively and Shinichi deflected another murderous slash while leaping back. He could not withdraw further in the little room. He tried to block Tomoe’s third blow; but a pole could only deflect at angles, not block a direct strike. The sword of Okio sliced through the pole, losing almost none of the cut’s force. Shinichi grimaced and spit through his teeth, cut mortally at the temple.

  Without waiting to see Shinichi collapse, Tomoe leapt toward the shadowed corner. Her sword met nothing. There was a fluttering of robes. The dark figure had jumped into the rafters. A dart was tossed toward Tomoe’s face, but it rang against her sword. She thrust the curve of her blade far above her head, causing the unseen fellow to move again. This time the fluttering sounded more like wings than robes.

  “Tengu!” cried Tomoe, recognizing that sound at last. A tengu was a small, winged demon with a long nose. He perched in another part of the rafters where dim light struck. His wings made him look hunchbacked. A sword was sheathed near his groin. His dry, hoary voice clicked and cackled with delight. “You know my race!” he said. “Then you will know we are good swordfighters!”

  He spread his wings and lighted on the floor, longsword drawn. The tengu looked like an old man, thin and bony; but he moved with the wiry grace of a youth. There was not much space for Tomoe to maneuver against the long-nosed demon’s quick style. He was smaller and could maneuver better. But Tomoe had fought demons many times; and the tengu may have been surprised that his tricks did not work. He would have to rely on skill alone, so Tomoe doubted he could win.

  The tengu must have thought likewise, that he could not win. He spread his wings and returned to the rafters, abandoning the fight; then he dove like a hawk toward the small door. Tomoe moved quickly. Her sword cut the demon’s tail feathers and clipped his right wing. He was unable to break his descent.

  He plunged from the roof apartment into the yard of the kimono repair company. He landed in a vat of blue dye. The women working there fled into the building, screaming shrilly about the monster. Tomoe looked down at the comical sight of the tengu splashing and cussing in the vat. He climbed from his messy post and tried to fly away, but Tomoe had trimmed too many feathers.

  “Vengeance!” cried the tengu, hobbling away through the narrow alleys. “I will be avenged!” When he found a shadowed place away from the sun, he turned and shook his knobby fist at Tomoe on the roof outside the vacated apartment. The tengu said, “Mine will be remembered as the Vengeance of the Blue Tengu! I will be remembered when Tomoe Gozen is forgotten!”

  His promise made, the blue t
engu slunk away through paths too small for Tomoe to follow.

  In a clearing away from the road, Tomoe made a firepit. She had previously pulled some edible roots. These she tied to the end of a stick and propped the stick over the coals of her fire. Her mood was somewhat gloomy, as it had been for the month since she visited her father in Heida and her troubles began. Now she was pursued by enemies of swordmaker Okio, aside from her falling out with her father. It was one trouble after another! Although her pursuers wanted only her sword, the sword was her soul and she would die before giving it up. It was an annoying situation all around. The nuisance of being on the road, rather than in Shigeno Valley aiding Toshima while her castle was being constructed against tremendous odds, was the main source of Tomoe’s irritability. “I will strive to be more patient,” Tomoe said to herself; for a proper samurai tries each day to be a little better than before. “I will strive to be serene.”

  Yellow fire lit her features: round face and small, flat nose; high eyebrows and intelligent eyes. Tough as she was, the woman was yet beautiful.

  Around her camp, the forest was lost in darkness. The branches of aromatic pine provided loose shelter overhead. Tomoe looked up and saw stars through the limbs. Ama-no-kawa the “heavenly river” was a sharp, bright waterway between Naipon and the High Plain of the Gods, Taka-ma-no-hara. It was almost the time of year for the Star Festival, when the sky should be especially appreciated. The beautiful sight of the heavenly river helped settle Tomoe’s turbulent feelings. She thought that her own route was like Ama-no-kawa, with many wonders along the banks.

  Against that backdrop of stars, she caught sight of a fluttering shadow. It disappeared near the top of the pine. It might have been an owl, but Tomoe was wary. She watched carefully until she saw another. It, too, landed in the pine beneath which Tomoe camped. She could not see or hear these birds. As she watched with narrow eyes, a falling star streaked the night’s sky and vanished: an omen which was sometimes lucky and sometimes not. A third dark shadow moved against Ama-no-kawa, like a minor deity swimming down from heaven.