The Disfavored Hero

by Jessica Amanda Salmonson

  As the four avengers peered along the edges of each others’ swords, a fifth sword’s blade thrust toward the sun, its tang revealed in a soiled hand.

  The fifth man was an unbathed ronin. His forehead was unshaven. His queue of hair stuck up at a sad angle. His jaws were bristly. It was difficult to believe that so unfortunate a character owned one of Naipon’s finest swords; but the sword, and his presence, were proof enough. The four introduced themselves.

  The ronin hadn’t the courtesy to sit with them, but stood looking from bonze to vassal to prince and gazing overlong at the woman warrior. He scratched his whiskers and paraded back and forth. At length he said, “A ghost insisted that I come. I would be glad enough to avenge the maker of my sword, which was won from a famous warlord who likes to gamble when he’s drunk. But I’m not sure I would mix with wholesome children like these!” He passed his disapproving eyes over them again. “A monk who teaches Buddha’s love with a sword! A vassal who looks as intelligent as an ogre! A prince who is hardly more than a boy! A woman with swords instead of poems at Star Festival! If I join fools as these, surely it will be me who next needs an avenger.”

  Prince, bonze and woman were unruffled. The vassal bit back a reply. The bonze smiled with excessive politeness and asked,

  “Does the lucky gambler have no name?”

  A samurai with no name was no samurai at all. It was not a very subtle insult; but coming from a monk, it might be excused as ignorance of samurai manners. The ronin squinted at the daring bonze, then answered,

  “Call me Ich ’yama.”

  “Number one mountain!” said the bonze, laughing. “If that is the only name you have, it will do.”

  Tomoe intervened more seriously, “I presume Okio has given us each ten names. The total is fifty. Because there is a festival and many willing girls, we can assume the fifty assassins will remain in Isso for a while. They will leave at festival’s end, the day after tomorrow.”

  The five avengers had put their swords back together and sheathed them. Hidemi Hirota leaned toward Tomoe and said, “We must kill them before they leave!”

  Ich ’yama snorted derisively. “Brilliant deduction, Hidemi-sama.” The ronin used the suffix denoting godhood or superiority. It was too unsubtle a jab. Hidemi stood from his knees to face the ronin. They were of equal height but Hidemi was wider.

  “Please,” said Prince Tahara. “We must all like each other for a day or two. I suggest we divide into two pairs and investigate the saké houses and the low district. Bonze Shindo can remain here to attend the corpses. The bodies will need to be disposed of secretly, lest the magistrate discover the murders and our plot before our task is completed. We will rejoin Shindo in this garden before dusk tonight and report what we have found.”

  Ich ’yama’s scruffy face was bent over a group of flowers, sniffing. When he looked up, he sneezed. He said, “Tomoe Gozen and I will go together.”

  “Will that do?” young Prince Tahara asked Tomoe. She did not answer. “Then Hidemi Hirota and I will go together. None of us must be conspicuous!”

  The two pairs left the misleading peace of the gardens, going slowly as to be unnoticed. The monk Shindo stood alone among the trees and blossoms. He did not move.

  “It’s Tana-bata,” Ich ’yama said to Tomoe. “Are you always this unaffected?” The ronin looked left and right at the happy couples and hopeful singles. He stopped occasionally to read the poems which hung on bamboo bushes and trees.

  “There is serious business to attend,” said Tomoe.

  “Death is forever near the sides of samurai. This does not mean we cannot stop long enough to appreciate beauty. We should be even more appreciative of beauty than others, for it could always be the last we see.”

  “If a samurai has no time for baths,” said Tomoe, “he has no time for beauty.”

  Ich ’yama was struck soundly. “My scent offends you?” he asked good-naturedly. “Come with me to a public bath and we’ll rectify the problem.”

  Tomoe repeated herself firmly: “There is serious business to attend.”

  A beautiful maiden in silk kimono played koto, the instrument setting in front of her on the floor of the porch. Beside her was a table filled with offerings for Weaver Maid and Herdsman. Ich ’yama stopped to listen. He looked sentimental. Tomoe stopped beside him, but was annoyed by the interruption. Ich ’yama said softly, so as not to bother the koto player, “On Star Festival, Tomoe, many lovers meet for the first time!”

  Tomoe’s eyes narrowed. She did not reply. She and Ich ’yama strolled on. The ronin still yammered,

  “Some of this poetry is nice!” He dawdled again, looking at a strip of paper in a tree and quoting, “‘Star Maiden weeps but is not unhappy. Parted by the River, still Herdsman is faithful.’” He shrugged and commented on the piece, “Well, the poet’s hand is young.”

  Tomoe’s growing irritation became harder to contain. She said, “You have the mind of a young girl! Tend to the Way, ronin, and perhaps your lot will be better in the future.”

  Ich ’yama winced. “Everytime you speak, it stings!” he complained. “What is wrong with the mind of a young girl? Have you never had a mind like that? Do you believe in the kind of love called ‘Tana-bata Enlightenment’? It means ‘love at first sight.’”

  “I know what it means.”

  “I’m glad!” said Ich ’yama. “You look down on me because I’m without a master. What if my fortune were better? Would you still sneer?”

  “Mine is the Way of the Warrior, ronin! If you cannot attend to business today, then I will search Isso alone!”

  Ich ’yama was distracted and did not hear Tomoe’s criticism. “Look!” he said. “A puppet show!” There were puppeteers “hiding” under black veils, holding puppets in front of themselves and performing a whimsical play in the middle of the street. Children and adults had gathered around. It was the story of the conquering Empress Jingo who, in the play, had recently returned from the Mainland a widow. Thirty-seven princes came to her in turn, asking for her favor, and each time she said:

  “My soul is serene

  It dwells in another heaven

  Here, cranes perch on branches of plum

  No man may come.”

  Historically speaking, Jingo never did remarry, but ruled Naipon for many years by herself. Ich ’yama looked from the beautifully crafted puppet depicting the ancient amazon, and then he looked at Tomoe. The look on his face did not evade her. She turned and walked away, not caring if he followed, but he did. The uncouth behavior of ronin always appalled Tomoe. She reproached him severely,

  “Go bathe, ronin! I will not walk with you until you do.” Ich ’yama stopped in the middle of the street and let her go on by herself. For a moment he looked sad, but then he beamed and shouted,

  “Happy Tana-bata, Tomoe!” He looked at everyone in the street and called to all, “Happy Tana-bata!” Then he went running through the crowd toward a public bath.

  On her own, Tomoe investigated one of the grimmer districts of Isso. Gamblers and wanderers staggered from saké den to den. Cutthroats conspired in corners. Geishas were obscene in bright of day. Thieves patrolled the alleys. Crippled children begged—some, perhaps, crippled by their parents for precisely this occupation.

  She lingered in low places, tasting stale noodles and soured sauces as an excuse to sit and overhear abominable dialogues. She heard nothing regarding the fifty men.

  The ten faces shown to her by the ghost of Okio were always fresh in her mind; but she saw no one to fit these descriptions. Sometimes faces were shadowed with straw hats large as the one she wore herself. It made spying out identities difficult.

  As the day progressed, she began to wonder if Ich ’yama would ever catch up to her. She rather hoped he wouldn’t. With his large mouth and doubtful intentions, he was too great a nuisance.

  A tinkling of bells caught her attention. As custom dictated, the fortuneteller wore tiny bells around the rim of her hat, heralding he
r presence and profession everywhere she went. It made her rather too conspicuous as a shadow. This was the third time Tomoe had heard the ringing.

  Tomoe moved quickly aside and hid between two buildings. The fortuneteller passed the place without detecting the samurai. As the belled woman walked by on bare feet, she leaned heavily on a staff because she was lame in one leg. She wore a red kimono with a representation of Oh-kuni-nushi, God of Occultists, embroidered on the back.

  After the woman passed the place where the samurai hid, Tomoe stepped out from between the buildings and became the tracker instead of the tracked. This didn’t last long. The fortuneteller realized the trick. She stopped and turned around to face Tomoe Gozen.

  Tomoe couldn’t see the woman’s face, for a veil hung from the front of her straw hat’s brim. A pair of intense eyes peered over the veil. By those eyes, it was clear that the woman beneath the hat was younger than Tomoe would have guessed; the limp, then, was the fault of injury, not age. If the occultist were ugly or beautiful, Tomoe could not tell; the eyes, at least, were normally attractive.

  “Why do you follow me?” asked Tomoe.

  “You followed me,” the other stated. Tomoe only stared. In a moment the fortuneteller confessed, “You looked wealthier than this district’s usual clientele. I had hoped to read your fortune and charge you double.”

  “If that were true,” said Tomoe, “why reveal your ploy so easily? Now I will know if you try to cheat me.”

  “My services are worth double in this case,” said the woman in red. Her bells tinkled as she talked. The staff seemed to waver in her grasp and Tomoe noted that three of five fingers were bent, as though they’d once been broken. Those eyes glared steadily from under the hat’s brim and through the crack above the veil. “By my occult power,” she said, “I sensed you were in danger. Demons haunt you! I would tell you what this portends—for a price.”

  Perhaps the fortuneteller spoke truthfully. She might have sensed the gaki spirit attached to Tomoe’s sword; or she might have discerned that Tomoe had been recently in contact with demonic tengu. All the same, Tomoe had no interest in news of her future. She said, “A samurai is always prepared for death. Our ignorance about tomorrow helps us remain ready.”

  The fortuneteller nodded understanding. “I will follow you no more, then. If you see me again, it is coincidence.” As the woman turned to go away, Tomoe caught a momentary outline of the face’s profile. She thought she recognized that silhouette.

  “I know you!” said Tomoe. “You were a nun!” The moment she said it, she knew it wasn’t possible. The nun she was thinking of had been slain a long time ago. The fortuneteller turned back to face Tomoe once more.

  “You think I could have been a nun?” There was laughter. “No one forgets me who has seen my face; I can be mistaken for no other.” She started to draw aside the veil, then thought better of it, preserving the mystery. “No, samurai, you cannot know me.” She raised a finger and pointed over Tomoe’s shoulder. “Perhaps you know her better.”

  Tomoe looked behind and saw Azo Hono-o standing in the street. “Tomoe!” Azo called, hurrying forth from the crowd. “Why are you standing in the middle of the street talking to yourself?”

  “I was talking to this fortuneteller.”

  “To who? There is no one here!”

  Tomoe scanned the street, but could not detect where the fortuneteller had gone. Azo Hono-o said,

  “It’s been weeks! Remember our oath: When next we met, we were to test each others’ skills!”

  “The time is not right,” said Tomoe, agitated. “No one must know I’m in Isso. A public match is not feasible.”

  Azo looked annoyed. “You evade the duel too often! Could it be you fear my sword?”

  “Think as you wish.”

  “Well, I bring encouragement for you: Your father no longer hunts you. He has declared you officially dead!”

  Tomoe looked surprised, then upset.

  “It’s true,” said Azo. “He made your grandmother fold your clothing right-over-left as for a corpse. Any possessions you kept in Heida were given to a temple for distribution among the poor. As a result your grandmother will not speak to him anymore, but lives in his house. Your brother is even angrier. But as your father is the family patriarch, none can question his authority to do these things. You are no longer Tomoe of Heida. You must take another name.”

  “I’ll keep my name!” said Tomoe. “My father has died for me as well. He can take another name!”

  “You speak tough! But tears are in your eyes. Will you fight me, then, Tomoe Gozen? Without filial piety, what good is life anyway?”

  Tomoe drew her sword and raised it above her head. Azo stepped back, smiling, pleased, hand to hilt. The beggars and other people in the street scurried away to watch from safe distances. “Too many people try my patience today!” shouted Tomoe. She untied her straw hat with one hand and let it fall from her back to the ground. “Did you search for me to give me troubling news? If you are that eager to die, we will begin!”

  The sound of a larger fracas interrupted the intended duel. A laughing, howling ronin was running down the street, pursued by four large men. Tomoe’s eyes narrowed at the sight. She whispered the ronin’s name as though it were a curse:

  “Ich ’yama.”

  The ronin hadn’t bathed at all. He’d gotten drunk and evidently gambled. No doubt he lacked the funds to pay his losses. His pursuers were tattooed men: professional underworld gamblers. They had bared their shoulders to boastfully reveal their fierce tattoos. Although Ich ’yama fled their murderous rage, he did not seem worried. He laughed uproariously, heading straight toward Tomoe Gozen and Azo Hono-o.

  “I’ve been running all over looking for you, Tomoe!” he shouted. “I wanted you to see this!”

  He reeled about and drew his sword in the direction of the gamblers. The four men were surprised by the action, but prepared themselves quickly. As they raised their swords to kill the delinquent ronin, Ich ’yama was already sheathing his sword. The four men were gutted. One by one they realized they’d been mortally cut, and fell to the ground.

  Tomoe’s evil mood lessened with the sight. She never expected to feel admiration for the dirty ronin. She picked her hat off the ground, dusted it, and said to Ich ’yama, “That was excellent.”

  “I know!” said Ich ’yama, eyes sparkling.

  Azo Hono-o inspected the clean, killing wounds approvingly. She started to slip away, for what reason Tomoe wasn’t certain. “Where do you go?” asked Tomoe; but Azo Hono-o withdrew into an alley and vanished.

  “Who was she?” asked Ich ’yama.

  “A friend who wants to duel,” said Tomoe. “I expect someday we will … but I wonder why she ran away. It’s been a day of strange meetings! As I don’t believe in coincidences, I suspect occult intervention.”

  She and Ich ’yama left the corpses for others to clear away. Since samurai could lawfully slay anyone equal to or below their own station, an investigation was unlikely, especially in the case of gamblers.

  “Did you learn anything?” asked Ich ’yama. “No? Me either. I went to the most despicable places searching!” He jokingly feigned disgust for the necessity. “The bathhouse was overcrowded, so I didn’t get a chance to bathe … but … I did do something!” He blushed like a lovestruck boy as he removed a rectangle of paper and a piece of yarn from his sleeve. He had written on the paper. Seeing a rather scraggly bamboo bush nearby, he hurried toward it and began to tie the paper to a branch. “I wrote it myself!” he said. “Please read it!”

  Despite herself, she was curious. If anyone had ever written a poem for her before, they had not had the nerve to show it to her. Ich ’yama’s poem read:

  Women are inconstant

  as streaks of golden sunset

  under clouds.

  She was immediately incensed. Doubtless it was intended to convey his sadness regarding her unresponsiveness to amorous clues; probably she was supposed to be
flattered to be compared to golden sunsets. But the charge of inconstancy was entirely false! It revealed the ronin’s self-centered ignorance more than any comprehension of Tomoe’s strengths or nature. She tore the paper from the limb and crushed it in her palm. Ich ’yama was surprised. Tomoe growled at him, “Your sentiment would be appropriate for a courtesan or girlish page. Either might reply happily to your bid for sympathy. But to level a charge of inconstancy against a bushi is to challenge my very honor as a samurai! I will prove my constancy with my sword. You will agree to duel?”

  Ich ’yama stammered, “I—I didn’t mean … I—I only meant …”

  “Tomoe Gozen!”

  It was Prince Shuzo Tahara hurrying out of an inn. He must have been watching this drama unfold from an upper floor window. Hidemi Hirota was with him, as they too had been spying through the low districts and doing so as a team. Tahara stopped two sword-lengths away from the man and woman samurai, and shouted as though he stood a long way off,

  “Tomoe! Place your priorities according to your conscience! You want to duel the ronin! What is more important!”

  “Don’t meddle, Shuzo!” she said. “He has been an affront to me all day. He has even accused me of inconstancy! I cannot waver now.”

  “Let them fight,” said Hidemi.

  “No! Ich ’yama has ten of the faces in his brain! Tomoe has another ten! If one dies, or they kill each other, part of our task will go uncompleted!”

  “Tell us the names of the men,” Hidemi suggested to Tomoe and Ich ’yama. He looked at the prince and added, “Then we can let her kill the ronin.”