The innkeeper hurried back into the room with a bottle of freshly warmed saké. “A present!” he said. “It is the best I have, and not too bad—the least I can offer you for seeing an end to my poor inn’s troubles!”
The young samurai and his girlfriend were moving toward the end of the elevated floor to get their shoes. Tomoe had only tasted her meal which the innkeeper had made special. She pushed the tray aside and let the innkeeper pour her a tiny cup of saké, which she drank. She held the cup out to be refilled. As he poured the second cup, Tomoe whispered, “Because I appreciate your hospitality, I must leave quickly before blood is spilled on this clean floor.”
The little man frowned and quaked. He looked around his shoulder and spied the young couple moving slyly toward the exit. He scooted out of Tomoe’s way while she drank the second cup of saké. After she shook out the empty cup and set it aside, she nodded a brisk appreciation to the innkeeper then stood up. He rushed ahead of her so that he could place her sandals on the step.
As she went out after the departing pair, Tomoe pulled the longsword and scabbard into place in her obi, and tied her hat so that it hung on her back. The street was damp from a brief rain during the night, but already the sky was clear and the morning pleasantly warm. Most of the people of the district were not yet out, since so many had been up late with celebrations.
The young samurai looked back with eyes large. He pulled the girl after him, hurrying toward a small, enclosed shrine where it would be a sin for Tomoe to shed his blood. The youth’s fondness for the girl hindered his speed; her kimono was tight-fitting and she could not move with long strides. Tomoe overtook the couple without having to hurry.
The girl, in payment for her lover’s kindness in not leaving her behind, shielded the samurai with her own body. Tomoe’s sword was drawn, but she was reluctant to kill the innocent protectress.
“Don’t kill him!” the girl exclaimed. “It was my fault!”
“I have not come because of your illicit affair,” said Tomoe. “I have come because this youth took part in the affairs of murder.”
The youth’s eyes grew larger still. The girl said, “It isn’t true! Ryoichi is too gentle!”
“Was Ryoichi accompanied when he came to the temple from which you ran away?” Tomoe did not wait for the girl to answer, since the answer was obvious. She said, “They came to purify themselves after the crime!”
Even with Tomoe’s evidence, the girl would not move aside. Tomoe’s sword raised until it was poised above her head. She took a step forward, indicating that she would kill the girl if necessary. The young assassin shrank behind his shield.
“Spare Ryoichi!” she pleaded. “Take my life instead!”
Tomoe would not consider a bargain. She said to the cringing young samurai, “Don’t be a coward, Ryoichi Nomoto. Push the girl out of the way and fight me with your sword. If you are old enough to be a killer, you are old enough to be killed.”
The calmness of her tone unnerved the samurai further. Instead of pushing the girl out of the way, he grabbed hold of her lest she change her mind about dying first. He held her neck and started backing toward the gate of the shrine. The girl may have been surprised to be so willingly used; but she remained stern in her resolve to protect her lover. Tomoe’s sword slashed downward at an angle. The arm around the girl’s neck was sliced to the bone, but the girl herself was uninjured. Blood drenched the front of her kimono. Even cut so badly, the youth would not let go.
“He has many friends!” the girl warned, holding out a hand in a feeble gesture to stay Tomoe from pressing nearer. “If you do not strike Ryoichi again, I will ask his friends to overlook your error!”
Tomoe drew her shortsword and threw it, apparently, straight up in the air. Ryoichi Nomoto looked up to see where the blade was going. It came down and took him in the right eye. As he slipped to his knees on the wet ground, the girl whirled around and shouted, “Brace up, Ryoichi!” She tried to pull him to his feet and drag him the rest of the way into the shrine. Tomoe moved quickly. Her longsword finished the task, silencing Ryoichi’s pitiful whimpering.
The girl collapsed upon the corpse, wailing. Tomoe took the shortsword from the dead boy’s face, saying, “He was braver when killing an unarmed family with the aid of forty-nine. But if you want him avenged, find his many friends. Tell them they will know where I am waiting.”
This stated, Tomoe left the sobbing girl with a lover’s corpse. The samurai strode away from the low districts without once looking back.
She arrived at the garden entrance at the same moment as did Hidemi Hirota. The big man was excited as he stumbled across her path. His sword was still drawn from a recent scuffle, and was crimson-stained. “I found one of them!” he exclaimed, then, noticing his soiled sword, swung the blade to one side to get the blood off. He sheathed the weapon and explained, “I slipped out this morning to go pray at one of the temples and to bring back some dried fruit.” He reached inside of his kimono and brought out a container with enough plums for four or five people. “On my way back,” he continued, “I saw one of the ten men shown me by the gaki. I killed him with ease!”
“I, too, killed one of the assassins,” said Tomoe. She and Hidemi went into the garden, where the bonze Shindo was sitting on a deck which extended from the anterior of the house. His hands were held in prayer, rubbing beads between his palms. His prayer was for an enemy killed. Clearly he, too, had slain that morning. Tomoe said to Hidemi, “The ghost of Okio continues the haunting. I suspect all five of us have found one each of our requisite ten! We will know for certain when we see Prince Tahara and the ronin.”
“A strange coincidence,” said Hidemi, scratching behind his ear and wrinkling up his brow in consternation.
“No doubt Okio’s spirit worked hard through the night to arrange the situation,” said Tomoe.
Prince Shuzo Tahara appeared at one of the doors of the house. He held a bloody cloth in one hand; it had been used to clean his sword. Tomoe looked up from one of the garden’s stepping-stones and asked Shuzo, “Have you also found one of our enemies?”
Tahara replied, “It seems that one of the fifty decided to return to the place of the crime, with the intent of burglarizing the house. No doubt he failed to inform the others of his plan. You can find his body lying in the hall, where I left it moments ago when I recognized him.”
The monk had finished his prayer and looked at his three conspirators one at a time. He added to Tahara’s statement, “The one you killed did not return here alone, Shuzo. His partner lies dead among those bushes, filched items strewn around his corpse!” Shindo stood and pointed with his staff. Then he asked, “Where is Ich ’yama?”
The ronin appeared across the garden at the gate. He carried two parcels. “I had errands!” he said, looking somber as he approached the other four. One of his parcels was bloody and about the size of a head. He threw it on the ground at their feet. “This is one of the fifty,” he said. “Iran into him on the market street.”
“What is in the other parcel?” asked the bonze.
Ich ’yama hugged the parcel close, looking furtive and mean. “It is my business!” he snapped.
“If it affects us …”
“Don’t meddle!” he said, cutting the bonze short. “If you must know, it contains a new kimono, rice paper, writing kit, and a knife. Now, I’ve private matters to attend!” He entered the house, leaving the others in the morning’s dewy garden. They wondered about his attitude.
“Ich ’yama is in bad temper,” said Hidemi, sounding slightly pleased about it. The bonze said,
“He is still upset about losing the match with Tomoe.” The bonze passed a knowing eye toward Tomoe, as if to say, “Or he is temperamental because of a broken heart! See how he has bought a new kimono besides a knife to shave himself. Who does he want to impress?”
Tomoe returned the look quite differently, as though saying, “You have sworn silence on this matter, bonze!” So neither of them ve
rbalized their ruminations.
Outside the garden there were children laughing, for the final day of Tana-bata was already in full sway. Their merriment was a harsh contrast to the mood of the four within the garden walls. Prince Shuzo spoke seriously:
“We each have nine left to kill. No doubt our morning slayings will alert the others to their danger. They will begin to get their group back together to discuss their unexpected bad fortune. Then they’ll spy on the garden to learn how many their foe number.”
“They could easily prepare an attack before evening,” said Shindo, looking pensive and holding his monk’s staff straight up to one side. “We have to delay them somehow, so that the fight will happen after sunset. Okio can’t leave the Land of Gloom until then.”
Tomoe suggested, “We could leave a letter of challenge posted in this garden. It might say, ‘After nightfall, the five avengers of Okio will gather to fight the forty-five remaining assassins.’”
“A good plan,” said Shuzo Tahara. “In the meantime, we must make ourselves scarce.”
Hidemi said, “But won’t they be waiting for us when we come back? We cannot surprise them! They’ll grant themselves critical placement throughout these grounds!”
“It can’t be helped,” said the bonze. “Are you afraid of the odds?”
Hidemi Hirota puffed out his chest. “Certainly not.”
“Good,” said the bonze. The prince said, “Let’s scatter through Isso, then. Everyone maintain a low profile for a while longer. We will return at sunset for the main encounter.” Tahara looked over his shoulder at the door of the house and called, “Are you listening, Ich ’yama?”
Ich ’yama did not come out; but his voice carried deep and strong: “As I have recently purchased a writing kit, I will post the challenge myself, after you are gone. For myself, I prefer to remain hidden in this house.”
Hidemi rushed atop the deck and looked into the house, but a premonition kept him from entering. He scowled and shouted into the unlit interior: “That is too risky! You might be found too soon!”
“It is my risk,” said Ich ’yama. “I am answerable to none of you.”
Hidemi’s cheeks shook and reddened. Ich ’yama wore the broad-shouldered samurai’s patience thin, but Prince Tahara intervened, saying, “Let it be.”
“Baké!” said Hidemi, which meant “fool” or “crazy.” He stormed away from the house and the others followed him. At the gate he suddenly remembered his plums and, forgetting the annoyance of Ich ’yama’s strange behavior, divided the dried fruit among his friends. The monk, prince and woman samurai thanked him. Hidemi’s spirits were restored. Then they went opposite directions from the gate.
Throughout and around Isso there were many temples and shrines, for it was a capital of holiness since antiquity. Among the gods honored with relics, gates and buildings, however, there was no place or refuge designated for Weaver Maid and Herdsman. Yet on Star Festival’s second and last day, every temple was temporarily converted into places to honor the stars of Heaven’s High Plain. Novice nuns and acolytes had worked feverishly through the night making thousands of little cakes which the priests and priestesses generously gave away during the Children’s Parade. Many children marched in large and small groups through the various streets of Isso and around the outskirts of that big town, making mini-pilgrimages to various temples and shrines of importance to different families. These little girls and boys wore colorful kimono with exceptionally long sleeves. They carried bamboo branches hung with bright papers, switching them in time to a song their own pretty voices made. They sang before the holy spots with happy faces, and they received the little cakes to save or eat, and then they took their parade elsewhere.
Behind the long lines of children came mothers and older sisters wearing their most festive costumes plus simple straw hats of a kind which folded in the center and were like gabled roofs on their heads. These were the children’s guardians on the pilgrimage, but also they were dancers, waving fans in time to the children’s songs. One song went: “Weaver Maid and Herdsman met last night in the sky. The morning dew happens to be their tears of happiness.” More children and adults joined these parades as the day progressed, so that the ranks swelled and the streets grew merrier still. As these folks traipsed gayly through Isso’s respectable and religious quarters, they harvested the hundreds of love-poems and -prayers hanging everywhere on bamboo trees and bushes. These would later be tossed into one of the streams or rivers running through and around Isso, with the expectation that each poem or prayer would ultimately find its way to the Heavenly River itself.
Tomoe was hard put to evade a joyous spirit. She craved solitude before the battle, not celebration. She spied one happy parade of children, girls, and women; and she went quickly the other way down a street, coming eventually to the city limits. She strode through shadowy woods, the singing city seeming much less noisy with every step she took. As she went, she chewed the tough, salty meat from the dried plums’ stones. Since she had already eaten something that day, the nutritious plums were overly filling and she could not finish them. Although they would keep indefinitely if she stored them in her kimono against a hungrier moment, she was moved to offer the last of the plums to a squat, pleasantly carved rock she happened upon.
The rock was naturally shaped like a kneeling monk and had had a whimsical face added to it by means of a chisel. Someone had tied a paper bib to it in recent days, but already the bib was tattered. “Have you been neglected?” Tomoe asked as she knelt before the stone. A flat rock had been placed in front of the rough-hewn statue, and on this Tomoe placed the plums. “Since I am a samurai,” she said, “it is rare that I honor rustic gods; so I hope you will forgive my presumption. Unlike many of my caste, I am more faithful to the Shinto deities than to Buddhism. Because you look very old, I know you are one of the Billions of Myriads of Shinto gods; and that is why I have given you these plums. They are from me, but also from Hidemi Hirota, who bought them this morning. I won’t ask any favors in return, since I am a warrior and you appear too gentle for beseeching in matters of dueling. If my offering pleases you, however, please grant the request of the next traveller to happen by.”
Her odd prayer given, Tomoe bowed, stood, and continued along the sun-dappled, shady path. She came to a stream. There was a bridge further down the way, but she did not cross it; rather, she sat upon a smooth rock and rested. There was a small, unpresuming temple on the other side of the shallow, wide stream, but she saw nobody around it. On her own side of the stream there was only one other person in view: an elderly, hunchbacked fisherman sitting under a willow tree. He fished in the old, sporting fashion, not in the commercial manner with nets; he had a line tied to a twig. He didn’t seem to be having much luck, although Tomoe saw now and then that there were plenty of fish to be caught. In any event, he was far enough away that Tomoe’s solitude felt no hindrance. She watched the sparkling waters and meditated on matters sometimes important and usually unimportant. Occasionally she cleared her mind entirely.
She spied a crayfish in the stream, chasing after a minnow.
A cicada cried out from a sunny spot behind her. It was commonly believed that cicadas spoke with the voices of dead loved ones reborn among the withered bushes of the field. Tomoe began to listen carefully. She thought she heard the voices of friends lost in battles. She heard especially the voice of Madoka Kawayama, who had fought at her side when the warlord Shojiro Shigeno still lived. Madoka’s voice was sad because he had been slain by his own best friend; his voice seemed to call his friend’s name: “Ushii! Ushii!” as the cicada chirruped. Tomoe was reminded that she should visit the grave of Madoka in Shigeno Valley as soon as it was possible to return. She was reminded also of the shrine built for Shojiro Shigeno; she had helped build it with her own hands, in partial recompense for an unavoidable killing. These things reminded her inevitably of Shojiro Shigeno’s heir, Toshima-no-Shigeno, who had kindly given Tomoe leave of a vassal’s duties for
however long it took to resolve personal matters. Tomoe brooded deeply and realized she was an inferior vassal, to be far from Toshima’s side in difficult times.
The crayfish captured the minnow and tore it to pieces.
Across the river at the small temple, acolytes began to appear, and then a priest. They looked down the path together. Soon, Tomoe heard a procession of laughing, singing children. Tomoe was shaken from her moodiness and, despite herself, was won over by the beautifully clad children and other celebrators who swarmed up the path to the temple. The children sang a special song and received their cakes. Then the parade began to cross the stream on a narrow bridge. The path brought them near the place where Tomoe was sitting on a rock. The children were delighted to happen upon a samurai. They halted and began to sing a song for her, although she had no cakes to give them. She gave them smiles and nods instead, and one pretty girl ran forward and placed her bamboo branch in Tomoe’s lap and ran back to the group again, looking shy.
The mothers and older sisters came forward to the very edge of the stream. The poems and prayers which they had gleaned from bushes in Isso were thrown into the water. The papers floated away, encouraged by a farewell song to go up into heaven so that Weaver and Herder could read and enjoy the verses. When at length the parade of children started on its way back toward the city, Tomoe felt curious indeed. She couldn’t explain the feeling. She reached into her kimono sleeve and pulled out a wadded piece of paper. Why she had saved it she didn’t know, for it was an infuriating thing: It was the poem that Ich ’yama had written her, and which she had angrily torn from a bush. Despite its false charge of inconstancy, it was a pretty poem. Tomoe thought that perhaps Weaver and Herder would like it. Therefore the samurai threw the paper into the stream where it trailed after the others.
“I am being very strange today,” Tomoe said aloud, after the reveling children were gone and she was with her solitude once more. The poems had all drifted away, except a few caught on twigs and eddies. The water hurried by her vision. Miniature, mountain-like waves rose and fell and rushed away, seeming like eons of Time compressed into each second. The stream’s quick, simple beauty made Tomoe feel inconsequential.
The Disfavored Hero Page 32