The Disfavored Hero

by Jessica Amanda Salmonson

  Veils of mist drifted between trees, looking like specters, tricking the eyes into believing adversaries stood where there were none, and disguising where they really were. Tomoe walked between two large stones, herself a virtual wraith, moving silently; and she came face to face with another: a man stepped out from the darkness with his sword raised, prepared to slay. Tomoe drew her sword casually and took a countering stance. But she was unable to strike. Something held her arms! She backed away from the assassin and he pursued. It was curious indeed that she could not take the offensive. The approaching man was not one of those shown her by the gaki spirit; by some supernatural interference, she was unable to kill any but her allotted portion. In using gaki-magic to reveal to each of his avengers only a fraction of Mukade Group, Okio had inadvertently bound each to slaying only those revealed!

  The stranger pressed nearer, wisely taking advantage of her evident inability to attack. His sword begain its descent; but suddenly he grimaced, lurched into a rigid posture, than began to collapse. As he fell, Tomoe saw that Hidemi Hirota stood behind her would-be killer. Hidemi had sliced the man down the spine. He indicated the fresh corpse and said, “He was mine!”

  “Where is Ich ’yama?” asked Tomoe, realizing the ronin had not been in evidence. Hidemi was reluctant to answer her. She said, “He must not fail to come! There are nine fellows only he can slay, due to limitations accidentally imposed on us by Okio’s hellish efforts. Ich ’yama’s portion will escape, or kill us, if the ronin stays away.”

  “He is here,” said Hidemi, looking at his feet. “Only … he will not come out of the house.”

  Shocked, Tomoe asked, “How is that?”

  “You arrived to the garden late,” said Hidemi, seeming to evade her query.

  “I was detained by a tengu monster,” Tomoe explained.

  “You need not excuse yourself to me,” said Hidemi apologetically, for he had not meant his remark to sound disparaging. “Only, you were not here to discover Ich ’yama’s decision.”

  “What decision is that?”

  Hidemi Hirota removed a paper from the fold of his obi. “Ich ’yama left this letter on the door of the house. I removed it when Shindo, Shuzo and I came here at sundown. After we read it, we decided not to enter the house or rely on the ronin. Our enemies have undoubtedly read it too; but they would not have understood its cryptic meaning. I did not understand it myself until bonze Shindo explained.”

  “Tell me!” Tomoe demanded.

  Hidemi looked embarrassed. “You read it for yourself,” he said. “Ich ’yama waits inside for the Hour of the Ox.”

  The Hour of the Ox was the spirit hour, the hour of death. At that time, monks throughout and around Isso repaired to temple yards or hillsides to strike the bosses of huge bells, frightening evil spirits away from the city and comforting the sleeping people. Tomoe meant to ask Hidemi why Ich ’yama would remain inside the house until then; but Hidemi had pressed the letter into her hand and scurried off too quickly to be grilled further.

  Before Tomoe could completely unfold the letter, a man’s head peered at her over a rock. Tomoe held the letter in her teeth and prepared to be attacked. The man was very handsome and smiled amiably, not offering to come out from behind the rock. She recognized him as Hitoshi Nakazaki and was anxious to kill him for Okio’s sake. “Come out!” she challenged, speaking with the letter in her teeth. “Show me how to duel!” Hitoshi Nakazaki only smiled more engagingly, perhaps amused by the way she made challenges with teeth clenched on paper. He watched her but didn’t move.

  An attack came from behind. Tomoe did not turn immediately to face her unexpected attacker, but blocked the downward cut by raising her sword sideways over her head. Steel rang on steel. She slid out from under the blow as the fellow moved out of range of her returned slice. This second man was Hitoshi Nakazaki’s brother Tatsuo. Hitoshi climbed over the rock so that soon both brothers were positioned to each side of Tomoe.

  She guessed their plan and wondered how best to counter. They were trained as a pair and did not attack randomly, but alternated one busying her with dangerous feints while the other strove seriously to kill. Their timing was excellent. For the moment she was entirely on the defensive. She blocked to left and right quickly enough to avoid being pierced but was given no moment to instigate an attack of her own.

  She blocked them again then hurried backward in an attempt to get them both in front of her. They were too fast and clever for that. Several times she beat off their tandem assaults. Soon she was able to perceive the full and limited scope of their style and skill. They were fair swordsmen, but really excellent only in a few narrowly defined and practiced maneuvers. Finally she understood the means by which she might turn their best skills around, causing them to defeat themselves upon the edge of their own certainty.

  Tatsuo attacked on her left. She evaded his cut without blocking with her sword. It was an unexpected defense. To her right Hitoshi had already launched a fierce attack, but this time his timing was incorrect, for he had expected Tomoe to remain stationary and block as she had done several times. The result was that the two men carved into each others’ shoulders simultaneously. They looked at one another in stark surprise.

  “Brother!” said Hitoshi Nakazaki.

  “Brother!” said Tatsuo Nakazaki.

  Tomoe slashed twice. Two brothers died embracing, swords crossed between their breasts. Six left, thought Tomoe.

  One of the brothers’ cuts had been close enough to her face to sheer off part of the letter she’d carried in her teeth. She quickly found where the other piece had fallen and held the parts together. A vagrant dart of moonlight escaped the prison of clouds and lit the garden. In this light Tomoe was able to see that the letter was actually one of Ich ’yama’s infamous poems. It read:

  From her crimson sheath

  a white-feathered arrow flies West

  Empty dreams of love!

  they fill my nights with sadness.

  The reference to a crimson sheath might have had a martial meaning, or intended to be lewd; yet what took Tomoe’s attention was the fact that the white feathers and the westerly direction were associated with death. Ich ’yama had written a suicide poem! How could the heartbroken fool consider killing himself at this time? He could at least have waited one more day! Shindo, Shuzo and Hidemi had seen the poem already; and they had done nothing about it. Was she to be equally aloof?

  If Ich ’yama committed seppuku for love of Tomoe Gozen, then Okio’s vengeance would be left incomplete. Tomoe’s part in injuring the ronin’s sensitivity would cause her to share the burden of that duty unmet. She alone was qualified to convince Ich ’yama he should stray from his resolve … long enough, at least, to complete his other mission.

  As she hurried toward the mansion and onto the deck, she heard scuffles among several people but did not see who was fighting who. On the deck one of her own enemies waited.

  “You are Matsu Emura,” said Tomoe. He looked more princely than Okio’s ghost had indicated when showing heads on pikes. Emura was middle-aged, dignified, richly dressed; and he held his sword well. Tomoe assumed, “You must be the leader of these assassins.”

  “I am boss of Mukade Group,” he said. “‘Mukade’ means ‘centipede,’ symbol of unity, and trouble for a foe.” He pointed to the group’s seal printed on his garb’s shoulders: a many-legged insect curled into a circle. “Kill one of us, and the centipede has many more legs to count on; but two of the legs you removed were especially dear to me. When you killed my adopted son Ryoichi Nomoto last morning, you sealed your misfortune.”

  Tomoe was unimpressed by the threat; but she was impressed by the way the older swordfighter carried himself, held his weapon, inched one foot toward her. Only a life of dedicated practice gave a man such grace. No matter which way she held her longsword, Emura held his in precisely the position appropriate to counter. Because she respected the fact of Emura’s skill but had previously found Ryoichi cowardly, she s
aid, “Ryoichi was not a worthy heir for a man of your ability. He did not try to defend himself. He used a girl as shield.”

  Matsu Emura shook with rage. It spoiled his princely posture. “He was still a child!” Emura shouted.

  “Mukade Group kills children in their beds,” Tomoe calmly reminded. “The centipede is slyness under stones! You killed the children of the Imperial Swordsmith, not for honor but for the gold of the giant Uchida Ieoshi.”

  It was surprising how the leader of Mukade Group seethed. The fey youth Ryoichi must have meant much to him. “For Ryoichi!” cried Matsu Emura as he charged, his face inscribed with sorrow for the loss of the gentle boy who was like a son. Tomoe dropped to one knee and hardly seemed to move her sword. Emura missed his mark and flew off the end of the deck, landing in a cluster of dwarfed pines. His stomach was cut open. Tomoe looked to where the swordsman had fallen and she was sad. He was not yet dead, but the cut was too good for him ever to rise again. Tomoe said to him,

  “You should have been a more difficult opponent except that you let emotion guide your sword. The hardest lesson is often the last one learned.” Then she turned and slid the mansion door open. She disappeared into the lightless interior.

  There was only darkness before her; but it was a traditionally built house and its corridors were in general easy to discern by the feel of her toes. She had, of course, left her sandals at the door. She slid one foot ever before as she progressed, making scarcely a sound. Her sword was drawn and wary. Mukade Group would fight harder now that their leader was killed; the desire for vengeance would go both ways. Ninja assassins might wait for her in one of the corridor’s alcoves, or behind the very walls. The hand which did not carry the sword lightly touched one wall, helping her to feel the route. She listened for any sign of Ich ’yama, who would be hiding while waiting for the Hour of the Ox.

  Her hand on the wall felt a slight vibration. She jerked aside when she heard a sword penetrating the thinness of the wall’s panel. She thrust her own sword into that panel and heard a vague grunt. There was no way of telling which of the remaining five, among the original allotment of ten, she had just pierced; even if she could get the body out from behind the wall, it was too dark for quick identification. She thought about it no more, but noted for future reference that she had only four left to kill. For Ich ’yama, however, nine remained uninjured.

  Rather than slink and search, Tomoe decided on a more overt approach. “Ich ’yama!” she cried out. “Tell me where you are!” It was a ninja, not Ich ’yama, who replied. Tomoe sensed the presence of the black-clad spy but could not see him. “Is it Kenji Hachimura?” she asked. “Kajutoshi Saitoh? Kozo Ono? Fudo Kuji?”

  “Kenji is already dead,” replied the deep, bodiless voice. “You pierced him where he hid behind the wall. I am Shintaro Shimokashi of Mukade Group. By my kyoketsushogi you will die.”

  Tomoe was unfamiliar with the weapon he named; but she suspected it was some kind of rope or chain attached to a sickle or barbed pole, for such were the tools only ninja used. It was a matter of the profoundest concentration to face in darkness a weapon the nature of which was uncertain. She heard a whirring sound and dodged to one side, but had been anticipated. A rope which felt as though it were made of oiled human hair wrapped three times around her neck, a metal weight at its end. The ninja drew her toward him, but could not hold her long enough to slash her with his weapon. Judging by the sound the weapon made when he swung it, it was shaped like a scythe mounted at a right-angle to a short pole. It would have sliced her but that her own sword cut the rope-of-hair so that she fell back from the slashing scythe. The severed rope was still wrapped tightly about her neck. She could not breathe.

  The ninja threw darts through the narrow corridor, aiming for the sound of choking. Tomoe took evasive steps as she struggled to get the slick, constricting bonds from her throat. She felt the wind of the passing darts, so close to her face she could smell the poison on the tips. She had loosened the rope enough to gasp deep breaths when the ninja leaped at her invisibly. The blade of the kyoketsu-shogi made so distinct a sound that Tomoe detected its angle of descent. Rather than fall back, she rushed closer and, one-handed, grabbed the handle behind the scythe-blade. She felt the curve of steel cut her clothing but not her flesh; it stopped next to her spine. With her other hand she thrust her sword up under the ninja’s rib cage. She heard his heart give a moist, startled “pop!” as she drew the sword out and pushed the scythe away from her shoulder. The ninja collapsed.

  In the next moment there was a dim light showing through a door of rice-paper. A lantern had been unshaded. Tomoe carefully slid the door open.

  “Come in,” Ich ’yama invited. The room was pleasantly lighted. Tomoe was surprised by what she saw. Ich ’yama had bathed himself. His forehead and jaws were cleanly shaven. His queue of hair was neatly tied, oiled, and pressed flat over the center of his head. He wore perfume, pilfered no doubt from somewhere in the house. He also wore fresh clothing: a flowing white kimono with a yellow crane embroidered on the back; and a white obi was bound around his waist. He wore no hakama or accouterments. He sat on his knees with his left side to Tomoe, facing a polished mirror as would a woman at her toilet. On his other side he had placed a little table on which rested a sheathed knife.

  By the look of him, Ich ’yama might have been a man of royal lineage.

  “The ronin is transformed,” said Tomoe, her tone sarcastic. “Bonze Shindo thinks you cannot be the masterless samurai you have seemed; but to me, this sudden finery which you have taken for the Final Ritual does not disguise your uncouthness. Do you think seppuku is honorable when you have another deed yet to perform? Kill yourself tomorrow! Nine men await your sword outside!”

  “I await the Hour of the Ox and nothing else,” Ich ’yama said grimly, not looking at the woman. “Not only is it an appropriate time for death, but it reminds me of the ox-headed wind-god who is also the god of a man’s love.” He sighed deeply. “You have injured my heart, Tomoe! I no longer care about pride or honor or duty. I am undone by a woman; it is a classic case! There is nothing left.”

  Tomoe circled left to see Ich ’yama from the front. She was amazed by the beauty of him, as she had been amazed in the gardens when they fought with bokens until both were reduced to sweaty slovenliness. She would not reveal her impressions now, however; she must be severe with him to rekindle his sense of honor. “You are injured to find your equal in a woman?” she asked sardonically. “If it has so destroyed your pride, then do not die by seppuku! Leap into a cold river instead! Die like a lovesick peasant, not like a samurai!”

  He looked at her then, and his look was hard; but seeing her, the look vanished quickly. His lips trembled and his eyes held sorrow. He said, “You have defeated me in worse ways than in practice-combat, and in more ways than you yet know. You spurned my love-poem and my love. Before we even knew each others’ faces, you refused our marriage meeting, going so far as to kill our go-betweens and many of your father’s retainers. I was insulted but impressed. You won my heart with those ferocious deeds!”

  Tomoe was shocked by the seeming-ronin’s confession. She exclaimed, “You are Kiso Yoshinake!”

  He bowed slightly. “I am sorry I had to mislead you. When Okio’s ghost requested that I help him achieve satisfaction against his assassins, I could not refuse the maker of my sword. Yet Okio had while still living aligned himself against the Shogun, who I serve as field martial. It was not possible to openly avenge the Imperial Swordsmith, so I came to Isso in disguise. When I found out you bore one of Okio’s swords also, I thought that if you would not love the successful Rising Sun General you might love a roguish fellow instead. But you have no love, Tomoe! It has ruined me. My final hour approaches.”

  Kiso Yoshinake pushed the mirror away and moved the seppuku blade and table to a place directly in front of himself. Tomoe said, “I won’t let you die by seppuku! If you refuse your duty to Okio, I will kill you myself!” To prove her mean
ing she raised her sword above her head, standing near enough to strike. In response, Yoshinake shoved the little table and knife beyond easy reach and said, “Very well. I will die with no honor whatsoever. Behead me.” He made his neck accessible.

  Tomoe lowered her sword. “I’ve changed my mind,” she said, trying not to reveal her frustration with the unreasonable man. “Is there no appealing to you? You will be remembered as a dishonorable man if you willfully fail your promised task. Think of your duty, not yourself!”

  Kiso Yoshinake flashed an angry look at Tomoe and this time it did not melt away. “Do you care of honor? What is the duty of a woman of the samurai? Have you not equally dishonored yourself by evading duty? The story of Tomoe Gozen’s recent faithlessness is already spreading through Naipon! The stories of her many exploits are told in the kodan-houses: how she came to be a favored hero; how she served Toshima-no-Shigeno, an equally notorious woman. Lady Toshima, say the stories, had been a famous author but set aside her career to be Overseer of her slain father’s lands. It was her preference not to buttress her position by a carefully chosen marriage, and thus it was necessary that she be ruthless and clever. Toshima raised a fortress where her father’s mansion had been. Her political genius and manipulation restored the valley to its former importance, and she was gentle enough to peasants that they happily repopulated the area. Stability was achieved by reasonable taxation of rice and rape-seed crops, of artisans’ products in the new and rebuilt towns which sprouted throughout fertile Shigeno Valley; and riches were gained because of special gifts and tributes from the old Lord Shigeno’s repentant enemies and the Mikado’s supporters. To protect these holdings, Lady Toshima appointed thirty-six generals, many of them famous samurai, and over them the hero Tomoe Gozen was made chief.”