The campfire was dwindling. Tomoe’s meal was cooked. She pretended not to notice the three birds watching from the tree as she removed the roots from the cooking-stick. Rather than eating, she stoked the fire with the stick. There was a restless sound above her head, like crows nudging each other on their roost. Tomoe lifted the stick above her head, fire on its end, and three baby tengu squawked and fluttered.
“Why do children come to gawk at Tomoe Gozen?” Tomoe asked.
The three tengu clittered excitedly. At young ages, tengu did not have the long noses which took years to develop. They looked like starving but pretty children crouching on the limbs of the pine, huddling close together and ruffling their wings. One of them, the lankest, answered,
“Old Uncle is furious with you. He says we are to follow you about and haunt you until he grows his flight feathers back and can come to take revenge.”
The other two were giggling frantically. One of them, with a bloated belly but elsewhere as scrawny as the others, piped, “Old Uncle has turned blue!” The two tittered some more. The first one to speak, who was more serious than his brothers, added, “We won’t let you sleep! We’ll play tricks on you! We’ll be awful pests!”
Tomoe lowered the flaming stick, because the tengu children did not like light. Fire was something adult tengu used in casting spells; it was never used carelessly as it was by humans. Tomoe said, “I presume you are sent as part of your training, so that you can become properly mischievous tengus when grown. But such dainty, unlearned goblins as yourselves will surely get yourselves murdered if you tease very many samurai. It might not be wise to bother me.”
The main speaker for the three was indignant, but the others shushed their tittering and were scared by the warning. “We are too clever for that!” boasted the leader. “Tengu trained the skulking ninja many generations ago. That’s how clever we are!”
Before the boast was completed, Tomoe moved with unpredicted swiftness. She jumped straight up, drawing her sword and slashing the pine’s limb. She landed on her feet away from where the limb fell. The surprised tengu children tried to fly away. They beat their wings in panicky awkwardness and smashed into one another. Tomoe’s sword was sheathed. She gathered up the tengu by their legs and held them in a bunch, upside down like roosters fetched for slaughter. The three squawked and wept and pleaded and flapped their wings uselessly. Finally, Tomoe let them go.
The tengus flew to a higher limb this time, quivering. Tomoe calmly broke the severed pine branch and placed it on the fire, lighting the area better. The talkative, lankiest tengu gathered his wits the fastest. He asked,
“Why did you let us go when you had us so quickly?”
“I took an oath with myself to be more patient,” said Tomoe. “Earlier today I killed a masterless samurai so down on his luck that he accepted a foolish commission to attack me. Afterward I killed a stupid peasant who thought a little skill in stick-fighting qualified him as an assassin. I’m not tickled with the notion of killing baby goblins simply because their uncle is an idiot.”
The samurai picked up the long pieces of cooked roots and broke them into handy lengths. “Come down to my camp and eat with me,” she invited, holding the roots up for the tengus to see. They chattered among themselves for a few moments, then decided to trust her since she could have killed them already had she wished. The roots were tasty but tough; their young teeth gnawed and gnawed on the pieces. After a while, they were all comfortable with each other, and Tomoe plied them carefully, “Tell me, my young friends: Why does your uncle serve Uchida Ieoshi?”
Their eyes grew large at the mention of the name. “The giant!” said the round-bellied tengu, who was eating two pieces of root at once. The littlest one, who had not yet spoken, covered his eyes with his palms and patted his forehead with his fingers. Their lank leader replied, “Old Uncle owes a favor to Uchida’s swordsmithing clan. A long time ago they gave our tribe of tengus some good iron from another island of the archipelago. No one really likes Uchida.”
“Do you know what Uchida wants your Old Uncle to do in order to redeem the old favor?”
They didn’t.
“Your Old Uncle is supposed to see that my longsword is broken. That means his mission is to kill Tomoe Gozen.”
“Kill you?” said the littlest one who hadn’t talked before. A piece of root was hanging out of his mouth. The samurai nodded.
“I gather that your uncle raised you,” said Tomoe, “or he wouldn’t risk your lives so blithely. When you fly home to your mountain, tell him that I would hate to make his nephews orphans. Tell him that a blue tengu shines in the dark and cannot hide so well.”
The children quailed at the thought of sassing Old Uncle. “He would beat us up!” the leader said.
“Not until he regains his flight feathers,” said Tomoe. “You can drop rocks on his head or anything you like. He can’t get you.”
Their eyes lit up. Tomoe continued,
“I think it will be a safer first lesson in mischief.”
The tengus tittered and clapped their bony little hands in front of their faces. Their wings shook excitedly; they could hardly wait to begin teasing Old Uncle. But they couldn’t leave Tomoe’s camp without permission, because it would be impolite after accepting the meal. Tomoe laughed with them and said, “You may go home now if you want,” and the Tengu children were off into the night, trailing happy noises across Ama-no-kawa and toward a nearby mountain.
Tomoe tried not to feel too well-pleased with her actions, since egoism and self-satisfaction detracted from any deed. Still, she knew that a less considerate individual would have killed the demon brats without hesitation, believing supernatural creatures to be obscene. Allowing them to go safely on their way soothed Tomoe’s weeks-old edginess. It demonstrated that she had successfully bettered herself despite recent misfortunes. Because of this she was able to sleep through the night with her dreams more restful than usual.
The permanently borrowed hakama trousers were neatly folded and placed inside the large, plain straw hat at her side. She slumbered sitting up against the big pine, her legs and arms drawn inside her kimono for warmth, her sword laying across her lap. Before dawn, she opened her eyes. In spite of the peaceful night, it was a sense of danger that awoke her so early.
She sat forward abruptly, lifting the sword and scabbard off her knees. Dew chilled the recent sleeper. Amaterasu had not yet risen; it was difficult to see in the dark. For light and warmth, Tomoe took an unburnt end of firewood and stirred the ashes of the firepit, uncovering a few coals exactly where she’d buried them. Hours earlier she had placed some brown leaves in her kimono so that they’d stay dry against her body; now she brought them forth and piled them on the exposed coals. When she blew on the coals, the leaves flared. However, before she could get anything more substantial burning, a momentary wind, cold as death, issued from the surrounding pines and put the fire out.
A sad, lonesome voice whispered eerily in the woods: “To-mo-eh. To-mo-eh.” It was a gaki or “hungry ghost,” she was certain. Ghosts hungered sometimes for revenge, sometimes for love lost during life, or for money left behind in dying … occasionally, they hungered for the blood of living folk. Whatever the cause of their hunger, it made them haunt the world, morose and dissatisfied.
“Who are you?” Tomoe asked cautiously, betraying no fear. There was no reply, but her sword rattled in its scabbard for no cause. This was an unprecedented power for a gaki, affecting a samurai’s weapons! It caused Tomoe to ask more vehemently, “Who are you?”
The gaki drifted out of the forest, a dim phosphorescent fog with no particular shape. It began to coalesce into the shape of a man whose legs were void of feet and joined as one. He drifted a little ways above the ground. His pale whiteness gained a bit of color as the materialization progressed, though he retained the translucence throughout. The gaki looked terribly sad.
“We have never met,” said the ghost. “But I think you will know me anyway.”
Again, Tomoe’s sword vibrated in its case. It seemed to do so in resonance with the gaki’s deep intonations. For the first time, Tomoe noticed the gaki’s small black hat. It was the cap of a Naiponese metallurgist.
“You’re Okio!” Tomoe exclaimed, realizing the swordsmith must have been killed. She held the sword before her, not as a weapon but as a charm. “I am not your slayer! Why do you haunt me?”
The hungry ghost drifted toward her, his expression earnest, but seeming to mean no harm. He said, “By trickery my bodyguards were drugged. Fifty samurai attacked my house this very night, stabbing all the guards in their beds or slumbering at their posts. Against so many, I was helpless.”
“Fifty to kill one!” said Tomoe. “They had no honor!”
The ghost of Okio continued, “They probably thought that I would be as good at fighting with swords as making them. But I have never liked to see swords dented. I was unpracticed in fencing. Not one of the fifty was injured; I’m ashamed to confess it. At this very moment they are on their way to Isso to complete their commission. They intend to kill my wife and children! Those clever men placed an amulet against ghosts in my body’s mouth, thinking it would keep me from pursuing them in death. Yet a part of me lives in the swords I have forged. A part of me is carried in your own scabbard; and that part cannot be arrested by amulets. If my enemies have their way, even these remnants of myself, of my contribution to Naipon, will be wrecked. For all that, I worry more about my family than posterity. You must go to Isso, Tomoe Gozen! You must rush to my family’s defense!” The ghost wrung his hands in despair, hovering nearer and saying, “Save them, Tomoe! Save them!”
“I will try,” said Tomoe, bowing a little from her standing position, still holding her sword in front of her vertically lest the ghost press too near.
After her promise, the ghost withdrew a short ways and looked somewhat relieved. He said, “Of the fifty men, I can give you ten names. I will etch them on your memory so that you cannot forget.” So saying, he began to recite the names of a fifth of his assassins: “Matsu Emura, Ryoichi Nomoto, Shintaro Shimokashi, Fusakuni Sumikawa …” As the ghost gave her the names, their heads moved before her as if carried on poles. Their features, with their names, burned into her brain. She would know them anywhere! The deep, sad voice of Okio continued: “Kajutoshi Saitoh, Hitoshi Nakazaki and his brother Tatsuo Nakazaki, Kenji Hachimura, Fudo Kuji, and Kozo Ono.”
The last of the ten men’s heads passed before her vision. The specter which had once been the Imperial Swordsmith grew faint, weakened by the spell he had weaved. A cold, cold wind swept through the pines as it had done when Okio first came. He became mist once more. Amaterasu’s shining face peered up from below the world, banishing him and all hungry ghosts into the Land of Gloom for another day.
Tomoe raised her sword horizontally and held it from each end. She bowed to the sword in her outstretched hands while facing the place where the ghost had been. She gave her oath.
“Bushi no-ichi gon,” she said, the word of a samurai binding unto death. “The task will be done!”
It was more than two days by relay-palanquin to Isso. The men who bore the transport on their shoulders shouted, “Pardon us! Emergency!” to clear the road, running from palanquin-station to palanquin-station, keeping Tomoe fast upon the route day and night. At the last station there were no palanquins to be had, because Tana-bata or Star Festival had created extra business. Tomoe hurried the last few miles afoot, arriving amidst gentle merriment. She didn’t think the fifty assassins coming from Kyoto could have closed the distance in better time. It would be hard to find out, however, since any number of men could arrive unnoticed during a celebration.
As Tana-bata was observed mainly by young women and girls, it was one of the least rowdy festivals of the year. Yet it did provide a few excuses for men to enjoy themselves, or to take advantage of sentimental girls. Tana-bata was the seventh lunar month’s holiday, in praise of the High Plain of Heaven and in particular two constellations: the Herdsman, and the Weaver Maid, who met at this time of year on two sides of Heaven’s River to gaze across at one another with sad love.
Tomoe walked the quietly busy street, listening to an unseen koto harp, traditionally played for lovers. There were puppet shows and other entertainment, each attended by a crowd. In the bamboo trees were hung rectangles of paper bearing poems about and prayers for happy marriage and love affairs. Young women had hung these compositions with strips of cloth or pieces of yarn especially to honor Weaver Maid who symbolized endless longing love.
The people wore gay colors for the occasion and went about moon-eyed and smiling. Surrounded by all this refined celebrating, Tomoe in her dark hakama and kimono was like a shadow. Her mission was an affront to the day, but it could not be helped.
Lovely, fragile-seeming women hurried to and fro, colored ribbons trailing from their wooden clogs or geta. Their steps were short and graceful. They sometimes bowed with admiration to the fighting woman who took long strides. Others ignored her as they passed by.
A magistrate walked slowly, looking extraordinarily pleased. He was followed by a covey of admiring girls. They were too young to interest him much; but boldness among girls was allowed during Star Festival, and the magistrate was obviously flattered to be the constant brunt of this occasion. He wore a flat metal hat and carried a jitte through his obi, between his swords. The jitte was a pronged instrument designed to catch an uncouth fencer’s blow and, with a skilled twist, break the blade. It was also the mantle of the man’s position. Tomoe approached this small group looking far too fierce for a woman during Tana-bata. The young girls backed away. The magistrate withdrew his jitte and looked officious with this badge. He asked,
“There is trouble, bushi?” He called her “knight.” She composed her expression so that she looked more pleasant, not having intended to alarm him.
“I’ve need of an address,” she said amiably. “The family of the Imperial Swordsmith’s wife is said to live in Isso.”
“Ah!” He looked relieved and pointed toward a certain street with his jitte. He described the house she would see. Thanking him, she bowed, and hurried on her way, arousing no more of his suspicions.
The house was modest but the garden was rich. As Tomoe walked along the garden path, she was disturbed by the quietude. There were no poems hanging in the bamboos of this garden. There were no offerings to Herdsman and Weaver Maid sitting on a table. There was no incense and no music. Tomoe sensed that she was about to discover a disaster. The fifty assassins had raced faster after all.
An old woman and an old man lay together in one of the rooms, pierced by the same sword-thrust while they made love. They must have been Okio’s in-laws. Their futon cover was soaked with blood. Their faces were close to one another. By their expressions, it seemed they died at a moment of final ecstacy.
In the next room were the children and Okio’s wife, scattered about in pools of blood, their faces frozen with terror. Tomoe dropped to her knees amidst this gore and silently reproached herself. She withdrew the longsword and sheath from her obi and set it on the floor in front of her and spoke to it:
“I will not fail you, Okio! I will find the ten men you named for me. Before I kill them, perhaps I can force some of the names of the other forty from their lips.” She bowed to the sword until her forehead touched the tatami mat. She felt the floor vibrating with a footstep. She instantly grabbed the sword’s handle and came to her feet, leaving the sheath on the tatami.
A young samurai stood in the hallway by the door. His forehead was neatly shaven; his motodori or queue of hair was pressed flat along the top and center of the shaved area. His face was pretty, but his expression was disconcerted.
“I’m too late!” he said, looking at the bodies on the floor.
Tomoe held her naked blade in the least threatening way, but was ready for any trick. “Who are you?” she asked.
He replied, “Prince Shuzo Tahara!”
Tomoe was sta
rtled. This was the son of a well known lord.
Behind Tomoe, a paper door slid aside and a monk revealed himself where he’d been hiding. Prince Tahara drew his sword. He and Tomoe stood side by side. The monk carried a staff with jangling rings on the top end, and a sword through his cloth belt. His head was entirely shaven.
“Bonze!” said Tomoe, addressing him by a common title. “Have you come to pray for these murdered people?”
“My praying is done,” he said. His voice was kind. He was almost as young as Prince Shuzo Tahara but not nearly so handsome. “I intended to defend these people, but arrived moments too late. Now that their souls have been attended, I will seek revenge for their stolen lives.”
Prince Tahara sheathed his sword while Tomoe retrieved her scabbard from the floor. At that moment, a broad-shouldered samurai pushed his considerable weight right through a paper door, screaming hideously and waving a sword. Woman, prince and bonze readied their weapons, but the big samurai stopped short and ceased raving. He looked amazed to see these three.
“Have I failed?” he asked, sheathing his sword and scratching his head in a befuddled way. Tomoe said,
“I am Tomoe Gozen of Heida. This is Prince Shuzo Tahara, whose family you may know. This Bonze is …”
“Shindo,” said the monk. “A novice on leave from a mountain sanctuary.”
The big samurai still looked confused. He said, “I’m Hidemi Hirota, vassal to Hirotaka-no-Hondo. My arm is strong but my mind is weak. You must tell me why we have all met here!”
The bonze stepped forward and said, “It would seem to be the plan of Okio’s ghost. There is one way to be sure. Follow me into the garden.” They left the house with the monk and went to a place where there was no shade. The monk said, “The light is good enough here.” He proceeded to knock the pin from his sword’s handle to reveal the tang. Tomoe followed this example, sitting on her knees beside the monk and removing the sword’s handle. The other two copied the maneuver. Directly, they compared all four tangs and saw that each bore the signature of Okio. To be sure there was no trick, they held the flat side of the blades toward the sunlight so that they could investigate the pattern of the temper. A clever forger could imitate a signature, but none could duplicate Okio’s secret method of tempering. The temper patterns of the four swords were identical.
The Disfavored Hero Page 28