The Disfavored Hero

by Jessica Amanda Salmonson

  The voices of the children and women faded away into the woods. The priest and acolytes went back into their temple. Once again the only other person in eye’s sight was the hunchbacked fisherman up the way.

  Tomoe stood from the rock she’d been sitting on, leaving the bamboo branch behind as a small offering to Oho-iwa Dai-myo-jin, the great and unchanging rock god, and for his consort Iwa-naga-hime, Lady of Rock Perpetuity. It was fitting for a samurai to honor that strong pair on a lovers’ holiday!

  As there was half the day to wait before returning to fight in the gardens, Tomoe walked upstream, going slowly, watching birds and plants and insects. Her nostrils were assailed by autumn’s aromatic decay. It was largely an evergreen woods, yet patches of colorful, deciduous leaves broke the greenness here and there.

  Because she did not want to bother the wizened fisherman or scare the fish so that his luck was even worse, she gave him wide berth. She intended to pass him without so much as a nod. But, as she was about to go by, he hooted with delight and pulled his line from the water. There was a big toad caught on the end! The line flicked in the air and the toad came loose, landing near Tomoe’s feet. She jumped one direction and the toad jumped another. The fisherman came hopping, too, and chased the toad through the grass, shouting, “A fine dinner! A fine dinner for me!” Tomoe smiled at these antics, being in a very much better mood after listening to the children sing. Then she noticed something odd about the fisherman: There were feathers showing from underneath the hem of his ragged kimono. The feathers were blue.

  “Old Uncle Tengu,” said Tomoe, her voice even and calm. The fisherman looked her straight in the eye, his toad held firmly in one hand. The weathered peasant-face melted away and the tengu’s long-nosed face showed instead. He said,

  “You have seen through my disguise.”

  Tomoe asked, “Have you come to exact vengeance on me?” She did not sound worried about the possibility.

  “I have two reasons to wish vengeance now,” he replied. “I have many lumps on my head because my nephews took your advice and flew above me, dropping stones. Until my flight-feathers have grown back, I am unable to chastise them properly. Because of my shame in not being able to fly, I have disguised myself to travel around the country afoot until the sky is mine again. However, despite my grudge against you, it seems that I will be unable to have vengeance in any usual fashion. This is because you were kind to my nephews, sparing their lives, feeding them, and even giving them useful advice, albeit advice annoying to my pate. There are tengu-diviners among my tribe who made a magic-circle flying beneath the moon; they divined that Tomoe Gozen was the Patron of Demon Children. An honorable appointment for you! Now, even an old tengu like me must honor your name, although I like the idea a very small amount.”

  “What you say is interesting,” said Tomoe. “To be appointed Patron of Demon Children merely for feeding tengu brats a few roots I pulled in the forest! It would seem that tengu tribes bestow honorific titles for low prices.”

  “Well you may scoff! But famous heros of history have talked to tengu-diviners for guidance. If they have divined that you are a kami or deity to our race, then neither you nor I can say they are wrong. It has even been suggested to me that I should be proud to have some of my feathers clipped, and consider it a boastful mantle that the rest of my feathers were dyed blue by Tomoe-sama.”

  “If I accept the diviners’ commission as Patron of demon brats,” said Tomoe, “it does not mean I won’t kill full grown demons as I decide!”

  “Of course not,” said the tengu, his tone matter-of-fact. “Nor does it mean that demons will no longer cause you trouble. Even I, whose hands have been tied by my tribe’s authority, may find ways to make your life unhappy.”

  “It would be interesting to have you try.”

  “Good.” The tengu grinned wickedly and his long nose turned up. “I will try immediately.”

  Tomoe bowed politely. “Please do so.”

  “I will start by telling you a story,” said the tengu: “In a town not far from here there was an important official who often went riding on his horse. His horse was trained for war and resented that he was taken out for purposes other than fighting. The horse grew angrier and angrier each time he was ridden about casually. Finally, the horse could no longer tolerate being treated like a useless, gentle pet. He threw the official onto the ground and trampled him in the legs and belly.

  “The official was taken home and the doctor came to set the broken legs as best as was possible, but said, ‘He will never walk again.’ The doctor gave medicine to the official’s mother (for the wife had long since died birthing a son) and said, ‘Give him this medicine and maybe he will live, but I doubt it. His broken legs are bad enough, but the hoof in the belly will surely cause him to die.’

  “Now the official’s son was behind a screen and heard the doctor’s words. The son and father had been on evil terms for a while, so that now the son felt remorseful. He went out to the stables where the horse was waiting. The son took the horse into the exercise yard, bridling the murderous beast as if for war. Then the son said, ‘We will have a grudge match! You have fatally injured my father. Now, show me a warhorse’s better virtues!’ The young man drew his sword. The horse’s eyes were red with hatred and delight.

  “The battle went on a long while. Sometimes the son was almost trampled. Sometimes the horse’s tendons were nearly cut by the sword. Eventually the horse knocked the young man over; but he rolled aside in time to not be trampled as had happened to his father. As he rolled, he cut the horse’s belly. Viscera fell out. But the horse would not give up. Although its back legs stomped upon its own innards, the horse neighed with bloodlust, not agony. It reared and jumped straight into the air. The young man moved aside too slowly to keep from having his arm broken by a ferocious kick.

  “And still the battle went on, in a grisly way. The official’s son fought one-handed, his broken arm dangling limp. The horse’s blood reddened the exercise yard from one side to the other. Guards came to help, but the son said, ‘Don’t meddle!’ At last he cut the horse’s throat and it could only fight a little while after that.

  “The doctor came again and set the young man’s arm and said it would probably heal fine. ‘But,’ the doctor said, ‘your valor will not save your father. I have looked at him again, and am more certain than ever that he will die.’ So, despite his victory, the young man wept.”

  The tengu seemed to have finished the story, so Tomoe said, “Old Uncle Tengu is a good storyteller. How will his tale help in his vengeance?”

  “I have not told you the young man’s name.”

  “That’s so,” said Tomoe.

  “Nor the official’s.”

  “Then do so,” Tomoe suggested.

  “I will, and gladly. The official’s son is Imai Kanchira.”

  “My brother!” Tomoe looked stricken. The tengu’s evil grin grew larger. Its nose twitched back and forth.

  “And the official is Nakahara Kaneto, your father!”

  Tomoe fell to her knees before the tengu and cried. She said through bitter tears, “Thank you for bringing me the news.”

  “It was my pleasure,” said the tengu. “And it is good revenge, do you think? To bring a samurai to her knees before me, thanking me for delivering pain!”

  “It is good revenge,” Tomoe agreed. She bowed her head to the ground and begged to know, “How long before my father dies?”

  “If you left immediately,” said Old Uncle Tengu, “you could see him before he dies. But you cannot leave, can you? You have an errand to complete! If you leave tomorrow, it may be too late.”

  Tomoe did not rise from her bowing posture. She didn’t care if the tengu saw her weep. Her shoulders shook.

  “Now my vengeance is complete and I am fully satisfied,” said the tengu. “It will be easier for me to obey the command of the tengu-diviners from this moment on. To prove I am at least partially your friend, I’ll grant you a vision.
I will let you see your father before he dies.”

  Tomoe looked up. Her cheeks were wet. She said, “You can do this? We can see each other?”

  “He cannot see you. But this toad I fished from the stream is not ordinary, for I used a special bait.” The tengu held up the creature he had caught on the fishing line. It looked like an ordinary toad except its eyes. When Tomoe looked closely, she realized the eyes were like two small mirrors. She gasped and backed away on hands and knees.

  “O-gama!” she exclaimed.

  “The toad-goblin can grant you the vision to see all the way to your home in Heida.” The tengu placed the toad on the ground. It opened its mouth like a little shibi urinal, and white mist began to exude. The mist swept up around Tomoe. She felt a rush of panic as her arms and limbs went numb; but the mists parted a bit so that she could see the countryside of Heida far from Isso. Her soul was being whisked away to her hometown! Directly, she was viewing her father who lay on a thick futon and was covered with two lighter futons. Tomoe’s grandmother sat on her knees near the foot of this bed. Tomoe’s brother, his arm bound to his breast, sat at the bedside, crying.

  The inability to feel her body was unsettling to Tomoe. She struggled mentally for some control, but could not succeed. It did not seem possible to get closer to her father.

  Nakahara Kaneto breathed deeply. He looked older than his years, aged by family troubles and then by sickness and injury. Yet his eyes remained open and alert; he must have known he was dying.

  Tomoe’s brother said, “Come to the side of the bed, Grandmother. Please make peace with Father as I have done.”

  “My son is dead already, Kanchira,” the old woman said. She was tired but stubborn. Obviously she had been taking care of her dying son; but she was still not speaking to him, because he had declared Tomoe dead. “He is dead for as long as my granddaughter is dead,” she explained. “I will not speak to his ghost. I am his ancestor; he is not mine. So I need not do his ghost honor.”

  It was a sorrowful situation. Kanchira was torn between love for both his father and grandmother. It caused him pain that they would not make up. He said, “Father. Is it so hard to beg Grandmother’s forgiveness?”

  The old man lay still, looking at the rafters.

  “Grandmother!” Imai Kanchira stood up, hurried to the foot of the bed and got down on his knees again. “For my sake, Grandmother! Father cannot live much longer. How can his ghost rest if you will not forgive him?”

  “As well as mine shall rest,” said the old woman.

  The dying man tried to speak. His son hurried back to his side and asked, “Will you speak, Father?”

  He said, “I regret,” then gasped for breath.

  Kanchira bowed closer to his father’s face. “What do you regret, Father?”

  “I regret … that I cannot see Tomoe.”

  The old woman tried to remain severe, but water filled her eyes. It was the first time since pronouncing Tomoe dead that Nakahara Kaneto had said his daughter’s name. It was as good as an apology. The old woman bowed to the floor and began to weep the many tears she had held back for so long. She wailed, “Do not die, Kaneto my son! I’m certain Tomoe will come home soon! We will all be united in happiness a final moment before you are gone!”

  It was an impossible wish, Tomoe knew; she could not leave for home in time. Unable to face the sadness in the room, Tomoe struggled to escape back to Isso. She felt her heart beat; it was the first thing she felt as her soul returned to its body. Then she felt nothing again. The mists parted and once more Tomoe saw her weeping grandmother, sad brother, and dying father. She fought to regain her body, but the magic of the toad was stronger. “I don’t want to see anymore!” Tomoe shouted, but didn’t make a sound. She found her hands in the mist; they were the only things she could see. With them she felt near her waist and discovered where her swords were kept. She drew the shortsword and threw it. The mist popped like a bubble and vanished instantaneously.

  The O-gama or goblin-toad was pinned between its eyes, dead, though its legs were kicking. The tengu’s hand was about to pick it up; but he jumped back from the dashing knife and exclaimed,

  “Why did you kill the O-gama? It gave you a present!”

  “Your vengeance has no bounds, tengu!” Tomoe was angry. “You made me see my family because you knew what they would say! They wait for my return; but you know, as do I, that I must serve Okio tonight!”

  “You are ungrateful, samurai!” the tengu complained. “I do not control the circumstances of your family’s life. They were things you should want to know! The O-gama could have invented a better vision, it is true; and a pretty lie is succor in time of trouble. But lies are not salvation!”

  “Tengu grant cruel favors,” said Tomoe. “So do not lecture me.” She stepped forward and retrieved her knife from between the O-gama’s eyes. Those eyes still shined like mirrors, closing slowly. Tomoe brandished the knife threateningly and said, “I have killed bigger demons than you! Hobble away quickly or I’ll cut off more of your feathers. I’ll send you home bald!” The tengu hopped away like a spry old man. He shed his garment to reveal his blue-tinted wings which had made him look hunchbacked in the ragged kimono. He said,

  “It is unfortunate that you feel like that!”

  Tomoe rushed forward with her knife. A log was drifting down the river and the tengu made a long, long leap, flapping his damaged wings awkwardly. He landed on the log and balanced himself as the stream took him away from Tomoe’s wrath.

  “We may spend our whole lives,” said the tengu, “exchanging vengeances like this!” Tomoe hurried downstream, following the log and its rider. She outpaced it and waited on the bridge, thinking to grab the tengu as it went under. But Old Uncle Tengu made another long, awkward, flapping jump which took him straight up into the trees. From there he vanished quickly, melding with the shadows and moving safely from treetop to treetop.

  Tomoe’s rage faded away, revealing the sorrow that was the true cause of her quick temper. When she was calmed down, she realized that the hour was late. The trip her soul made to Heida must have taken longer than she thought; she’d have to hurry to reach the gardens in time. As she sped along the path toward Isso, she halted only once. She lingered briefly by the whimsical statue where she had previously left the plums. The plums were gone; eaten by the god, pits and all, or stolen by woodland animals. Tomoe said,

  “Though I am undeserving of your notice, I have a favor to ask you after all. Keep my father alive an extra day! It is important that I see him one last time, and beg forgiveness that I have been an undutiful daughter. Do this for me and I will never fail to honor rustic gods like you!”

  Then she was off once more, toward Isso.

  The nighted garden was still. Tomoe saw a note pinned to a tree inside the entrance. It was the letter drafted by Ich ’yama. Beneath it was a second note: “The Mukade Group accepts the challenge.” It was stuck to the tree by means of a six-pointed shuriken.

  There was a rustling high in the tree beneath which stood Tomoe. A man clad in ninja-costume—black, tight-fitting clothing, including hood and mask—dropped to the ground behind the woman. She turned quickly, sword slipping from scabbard. The ninja’s shorter sword was already drawn, yet Tomoe was too fast for him. Her sword licked outward. The ninja jumped back into the tree when he realized his surprise attack was ineffective. Tomoe’s sword slid easily into its scabbard once more. She looked up but could not see where the ninja hid.

  Blood trickled down the trunk of the tree and stained the two notes pinned there. The ninja fell out of the branches, landing at Tomoe’s feet. Her quick sword had cut him before he regained the tree, perhaps before he knew himself mortally wounded. She reached down to pull the dead man’s mask away. She recognized him as a fellow named Fusakuni Sumikawa, one of those etched onto her memory by the ghost of Okio. She had eight left to kill.

  In the sky there was a thin cloud-cover. Only the brightest stars winked through. Tana-bat
a was definitely ended. The new festival was a private one: a festival of death.

  The garden was inexplicably colder than the city streets had been. Tomoe took this as evidence of Okio’s ghost being nearby, watching, delighting at the destruction of his enemies. Tomoe wondered what influence the supernatural presence might have. Okio should see the vengeance, it was true; but if he desired to be helpful as well as witness, it could go badly, since the help, well-meant or not, was still rooted in Hell.

  There was another sound behind Tomoe. She reeled again, hand to hilt. In the darkness it was hard to tell who was coming. It turned out to be the bonze Shindo. He had left his monk’s staff somewhere so that the jangling rings would not scare away the hungry ghost of Okio. It was more fitting, anyway, that the steel smithed by Okio be the bonze’s only weapon tonight.

  “They’re hiding everywhere,” said Shindo, looking at the corpse Tomoe made. “Hidemi Hirota is circling around the far side of the garden, searching carefully. Fortunately not all of the assassins use ninja tricks. Some of them fight like honorable samurai, though not so well as yamahoshi. I have already killed four.”

  Tomoe did not reveal her amusement regarding Shindo’s boast about his mountain sect. Before she could comment on the talents of samurai versus martial priests, they heard a scream of agony. Tomoe and bonze Shindo hurried toward the place of the cry and saw Prince Shuzo Tahara standing over the body of a foe. “He fought well,” said Shuzo, looking at the bonze and then at Tomoe. “But the swords of Okio are vampires tonight!” The three exchanged steady glances, then separated again, scouring the garden.

  The stillness was eerie. No nightbird or insect sang. It was difficult to believe nearly forty foe hid among the bushes and trees and well-arranged boulders of the silent grounds. The garden was fairly large; its design was such as to give the illusion of even greater size; there were scores of lurking-places. Moonrise was not much help in lighting the scene, for the misty clouds turned the moon into the dimmest of lanterns. Yet Tomoe, like most samurai, was hard-practiced at night-battle. In schools it was common to learn to fight blindfolded. She could see better than when blindfolded at least!