“You will always be my number one,” Yoshinaka said. “You must know that.”
She said nothing. She would not extract a promise. He would tell her only what she wanted to hear.
A sudden wind shuddered the walls, blowing inside, blasting their faces. He covered their heads with the blanket.
“If only we could hide in here forever,” he said. It was the closest he would ever get to poetry. She took a small satisfaction knowing his new wife would never hear a poem of his, either. She opened her mouth to his, biting ferociously in the way he liked best.
—
Yamabuki Gozen arrived as the light turned bluish in the winter twilight. Her enclosed litter swayed, barely clearing the sides of the fortress opening, carried by four stoic men moving slowly along the path, their toes scuffing deep into the snow with each heavy step. Tomoe stood outside, slightly behind Yoshinaka, next to her mother, the chill like knives on her cheeks. Chizuru stood on tiptoe to whisper, “Remember, it’s you who has his heart.”
Tomoe glanced down at her mother, this woman who had been able to marry her love, Kaneto, chosen of her own free will. Her father had never had a mistress, never known any other except her mother. Chizuru stood flatfooted again. Tomoe did not recall seeing her father glance toward another woman. Did Chizuru know how fortunate she was? She couldn’t understand what Tomoe was going through.
Tomoe straightened, smoothing out her heavy coat. Yoshinaka’s hair, normally a bit wild even when bound back, had been oiled and smoothed. She wrinkled her nose at its smell. He shifted from foot to foot. Nervous. She could tell without seeing his expression.
All of Yoshinaka’s supporters were here, waiting, dressed in what passed for their best. Mostly threadbare clothes, mended over and made over for years. All of them wearing layers and layers, their heads tiny above their puffy clothing. What would Yamabuki make of all of them?
Of her?
Yamabuki might want to be rid of Tomoe.
She took a breath so loud and deep it startled Demon, tied to a post on the other side of the courtyard. He neighed anxiously. She whinnied back to calm him.
After what seemed like forever, the men carrying the litter laid it on the ground. Two of Yoshinaka’s retainers opened the door and held out their hands for Yamabuki to step out.
Tomoe braced herself to see a powdered white plump face, her eyebrows shaved, then drawn in by hand close to the shaved hairline. A face used to poetry and music and leisure. Tomoe could not remember the last time she had heard music. Only when they made one of their infrequent trips into town, stopping at a restaurant, did she catch the refrains of a koto, the floor harp, or someone’s voice lifted in song. And certainly there had never been any poetry here. Though Kaneto had taught all the children how to read, there were never any books. Nobody felt the need to write poetry. Tomoe didn’t see the point of keeping up her already poor reading skills. Not when she had so many other occupations to concern herself with.
One small foot, clad in a cloth tabi and a wooden geta, appeared first, to land slowly on the snowy ground. Then another. An ice-blue kimono, beautifully woven—Tomoe could see that even from back here—picturing cranes scooping fish out of ocean waves, worn over heavier robes, swished audibly in the still air.
Those tiny feet. How could she stay balanced? Tomoe heard her mother gasp, and forced herself to look up at Yamabuki’s face.
Pale, all right. But not pale from makeup. Her skin was pale as that of one who has never seen the sun, nearly translucent, with blue undertones. One blue-green vein ran down the center of her forehead. Yamabuki kept her eyes firmly on the ground, her reddened lips pressed closely together. A great length of straight hair swept down her back, shiny as lacquer. She was lovely. Lovely and untouchable as a thin sheet of ice in late spring. When the sun shone on her, this Yamabuki apparition might melt.
The retainers helped her forward to Yoshinaka. True to fashion, the kimonos prevented fast movement, so tightly were they bound around her legs. “Yamabuki Gozen,” said one of the retainers, his breath visible on the air.
The last bit of light disappeared behind the mountains, the moon straddling its ridge, casting its spectral glow onto Yamabuki. Somehow she seemed more natural in this light. Yoshinaka bowed. “Welcome.” Tomoe noticed he was trying to keep his voice low and cultured. He didn’t do a very good job of it. It still sounded more like a bear growl.
Yamabuki wasn’t afraid. She raised her eyes at last. They glittered like black onyx, the darkest eyes Tomoe had ever seen, yet light, too, somehow, lit from within.
Tomoe imagined how Yamabuki saw her new spouse and waited for her to register some astonishment or disgust. Yoshinaka had none of the attributes Yamabuki would have prized in Miyako. His face was not round. He was decidedly hairy. “Thank you,” she said, so high and sweet that Tomoe momentarily forgot this was her rival. Her expression was pleasant, as though no terrible thought could ever pass through a mind so pure.
Yoshinaka’s great shoulders sagged in that particular way Tomoe recognized, when he wanted to embrace her. A moment when he let down his guard.
No! Tomoe wanted to shout. She stepped forward a little bit.
Yoshinaka straightened. “Please show her to her quarters.” Yoshinaka bowed again. “We will see you at dinner.”
Was he not going to introduce her? Tomoe rooted to her spot, cheeks hot in embarrassment.
The retainer stepped in again, cleared his throat. “This is Tomoe Gozen.”
Yamabuki turned her otherworldly gaze to Tomoe. Which world, good or bad, Tomoe couldn’t say. “I am pleased to meet you,” she said, still keeping that silvery tone. She bowed.
Tomoe bowed back.
“You must be tired. Would you like to rest after your long journey?” Chizuru said.
Yamabuki stood straight, but Tomoe could see her sway. “I am fine.”
Chizuru pointed to the house where Yamabuki would stay. “Take her inside. We will be there in a moment to help you get more comfortable.” The retainers with the crates of Yamabuki’s belongings, the small young bride.
Tomoe cleared her throat. “I hope she will not be too unhappy here,” she said. To her amazement, she kept the bitter note she tasted at the back of her throat out of her words. She felt sick to her stomach.
“She looks like the moon princess.” Chizuru gripped Tomoe’s arm. Neither approving nor disapproving. Tomoe glanced down at her callused hands, her largish feet. Next to Yamabuki, Tomoe towered big as a man. Awkward and ungainly.
“Come on.” Chizuru began walking toward the house. “Let us help her out of those formal kimonos. The poor thing can barely breathe.”
Resentment shot up. For the first time in her entire life, Tomoe refused her mother. “I must rest. I don’t feel well. My head aches.”
Chizuru leaned in to her daughter. “Tomoe, do you not understand? You are to be Yamabuki’s attendant. That is your role.”
She yanked herself away, staggering back. “I do not want to be her servant.” A woman like that could not do anything on her own.
“Don’t expect things of Yoshinaka he can’t give.” Chizuru pointed toward the house. “Come with me.”
Tomoe hesitated. Her mother glared at her. She thought of the fawn, how easy it had been to kill it. She imagined Yamabuki’s white face in the white snow, crimson pouring out of the wound. She shook off the image. She must do as her mother asked. No matter what. “Hai,” Tomoe said, and led the way to Yamabuki’s house.
FOURTEEN
Yamabuki Gozen
MIYANOKOSHI FORTRESS
SHINANO PROVINCE
HONSHU, JAPAN
Winter 1174
The journey to the north took more than two weeks. Akemi and her mother were long gone, and Okāsan refused to go, so Yamabuki made the journey alone with the hired men who carried the litter. She had one trunk wi
th her, filled with fancy kimonos she would probably never have occasion to wear, sandalwood incense sticks, a bottle of perfume from Otōsan. On the seat next to her sat her koto. She was glad, at least, that Okāsan had allowed her to take this instrument.
Yamabuki buried herself under a mountain of blankets, wishing they could have waited until the spring, but at the same time glad to be out of the stifling house, where her silent parents sulked.
She spent every second of traveling, both awake and asleep, thinking of Akemi. Sometimes with joy—her beautiful face, how she made her laugh. But mostly with sadness. How Akemi had left suddenly that very same afternoon she told her she was getting married. She gathered her things while Okāsan took Yamabuki into town that evening. When they returned, there was no evidence that Akemi or Hotaru had ever been there.
Obāchan-obake sat across from her in the litter, watching Yamabuki with an eerie stillness that made Yamabuki think she was merely painted on the wall. I am here if you need me, Obāchan said, but Yamabuki refused to acknowledge her. She was too old for imaginary friends.
When Yamabuki left her house, only Otōsan came out to say good-bye. He gave her a stiff, awkward hug. “Have a good life, my daughter,” he said, and his eyes filled. “Sayonara. Yoshinaka is a good man, I have heard. He will take care of you.” Otōsan’s voice broke.
Okāsan stood in her doorway. She slid her door shut. So she would not even bid her own daughter farewell.
So be it, Obāchan-obake said next to her. At least now, you will be out from under your mother’s long shadow.
“So be it,” Yamabuki said aloud. She said sayonara to her in her heart. How long would it be before she and her father lost everything? Yamabuki’s spirit felt heavy at her parents’ betrayals. She left the compound without a glance backward.
An hour before they arrived at Miyanokoshi, they stopped for Yamabuki to change into her nice kimono. She stood behind a copse of trees, hidden from the men. She needed help with the long obi that must be wrapped around her body several times, then secured, and she was forced to ask one of the men for help. He wiped his hands on his pants, embarrassed, clumsily securing the length of silk. Yamabuki’s face burned. She was no longer a lady.
At last they arrived at the fort, the men carrying the litter through the open gate. Rather clumsily, with a sigh of relief, the men set the litter down on the ground. Outside, unfamiliar voices spoke. A rough voice, deep. Kiso? Her heart thrummed as she stepped out into the snow. She expected the first person she would see to be her new betrothed, Yoshinaka, but instead the first person was a beautiful girl.
Tomoe Gozen.
She stood as tall as a man, but gracefully lithe as a deer. She moved like a man, too, secure in her body, in her world. Her skin was like polished porcelain, her lips a ruddy red and her cheeks naturally tinted pink. Her eyes shone amber out of her face, light brown with a dark black ring around the color, glowing like a goddess. Her hair, a long and shiny deep brown-black, hung over her back. You could no more take your eyes off Tomoe than you could off a burning building.
The goddess-woman bowed back to Yamabuki, who contained her fear behind a calm mask. Later, she would discover Tomoe was a great warrior, which made her even more fearful. But right now, she only wished to not offend her.
She wished Tomoe to be her new friend.
Then her eyes fell upon Yoshinaka. Hairy, coarse, big. Face not too bad, not like the oni she had feared. A permanent frown line creased between his brows, on his forehead. But he smiled at Yamabuki as a child would at a precious doll, and she relaxed, knowing at least he would be gentle.
—
On their first night as husband and wife, Yoshinaka unrolled the futon and took off his kimono without ceremony, dropping it to the floor, exposing his big and hairy body as if it were nothing. As though they had already been married for twenty years and it didn’t matter a bit.
Yamabuki clutched her kimono to her breast, her body tightening and shrinking. She had never seen a naked man before, and his member seemed to her to be a club he wanted to beat her with. He scanned her body with open lust, his face wild. This was going to hurt. There was no way to pretend otherwise. She lay back and closed her eyes and began to cry soundlessly. She could not imagine how this wedding night would provide pleasure for anyone, for what kind of man could derive pleasure from a woman’s pain? Obāchan appeared, her white hair glowing spectrally. Be brave, Yamabuki, she said. It will be all right.
She did not need her obāchan for this. “I will be all right. Begone!” she said roughly, and Obāchan vanished as though a figment of her imagination.
At the fierceness in her tone, Yoshinaka knelt beside her, his face flooded with concern. He stroked her hair. “Are you talking to me, Yamabuki? I won’t hurt you. I promise.”
“No. To myself.” His expression was eager and hopeful. Yamabuki made herself open her arms to him. He embraced her gingerly, taking care to keep his full weight off of her. “I know you won’t.”
He kissed her, and it was nothing like Akemi’s soft kisses. The rough hairs on his chin scratched and burned her face, his tongue was big and muscular as it shoved into her small mouth. He kissed with passion and Yamabuki tried to respond, but could not move her head properly. Her entire face was wet, saliva dripping down into her hair, onto her neck. He opened her kimono to caress her breasts, but he was as gentle as a bull trying not to trample flowers. He sucked her nipple into her mouth, scraping it against his teeth. His fingers moved into her.
Yamabuki swallowed, trying not to cry out in pain, or pull away from her new husband. She looked up at the dark ceiling and imagined she saw stars there, imagined she was out of her body, floating in the sky with Akemi, and at last relaxed.
—
Here at Miyanokoshi, Yamabuki saw Obāchan-obake often, as she had when she was a small girl. At night, she sat next to Yamabuki, murmuring bedtime stories. She waited in the courtyard when she fetched the water at the well, telling her, It’s slippery, be careful, don’t fall in.
“Leave me alone!” she blurted out one evening at her obāchan, and Chizuru looked alarmed. Yamabuki shook her head, embarrassed. “Sumimasen. I am talking to my obāchan, Chizuru.” Somehow she thought Chizuru would understand, and she did, because she put her hand on Yamabuki’s arm and Obāchan faded into nothingness.
Tomoe Gozen would not speak to Yamabuki. Her face and manner were never vengeful, as she had feared, but rather resigned as she attended to her. She thought Yamabuki a fool, it was plain to see. Yamabuki tried to chop vegetables and it was as if her hands were newborn lambs, unable to perform. She nearly cut off a finger. “Leave it to me,” Tomoe said, and pushed her aside.
Yamabuki tried not to be a bother to anyone. She sat indoors as much as she could, as she had in Miyako, doing the simple chores Chizuru requested. It was, on the one hand, good to not be indoors or hidden away all the time, but quite another to be out in the country, no city comforts to be had. Everything was always dirty, covered with a film of brown that made her eyes itch. The house was always so very cold, the wind blowing chill up here with no houses to stop it.
—
On the evening of the fourth day, as Tomoe was occupied elsewhere, Yamabuki tried to comb her own hair. It was hopelessly knotted and snarled from the trip and from evenings in bed with Yoshinaka.
Tomoe came in and sat down. She did not speak, but watched her for a few minutes as Yamabuki put her hair over her head, trying to work the knots through unsuccessfully.
“You look like a wild animal,” Tomoe said at last. “Do they teach you nothing in the city?”
“I am sorry,” Yamabuki whispered, giving up. Indeed, her hair hung over her face and looked like dead black snakes. “My maid did my hair.” At the thought of Akemi, she began crying again.
Tomoe came over with a sigh escaping her nostrils, taking the comb out of Yamabuki’s hand. “Perhap
s we should cut all your hair off and start over.”
Yamabuki folded into herself. Perhaps one day, if she could get through this rough part, she would be strong as Tomoe. “If you think that is best.”
“Do you think it’s best?” Tomoe began working the comb through the knot, holding the hair with one hand so it did not pull the scalp. “Don’t you have your own thoughts, or do you always echo others?”
“It would be easier if it were as short as a man’s,” Yamabuki answered, putting her hands on the floor in front of her. She thought of shaving her head, like a monk’s. How liberating that would be.
“Yes.” Tomoe dipped the comb into hair oil and began working it again. “But Yoshinaka wouldn’t like it.”
She said nothing to this.
The door slid open and Yoshinaka appeared. “Haven’t you finished with her yet, Tomoe?” he said.
“She will be done when she’s done,” Tomoe answered shortly, her pulling growing more fierce. “The girl is barely better than a toddler. She cannot care for herself.”
“Be good with her. Send her to me when you’re done,” he said, and shut the door.
Tomoe worked faster, pulling at Yamabuki’s scalp now until silent tears went down the girl’s cheeks. “That Yoshinaka. So considerate. How lucky you are.” Tomoe’s tone was bitter.
Yamabuki wondered if Tomoe enjoyed Yoshinaka’s company and she wished he would go back to her. There was a new pain between her legs. It burned each time she urinated. He will tire of you soon, Obāchan promised, but she wasn’t sure that was a very good thing to hope for, as a new wife. Still, she thought she should respond to Tomoe, so she said, “I am lucky to be here, Tomoe Gozen.”
Tomoe pushed Yamabuki’s hair back out of her face. “You are finished. Go to him.” She waved Yamabuki out the door, her face tight.
“Thank you.” Yamabuki’s hand went to her hair. It was still knotted.
FIFTEEN
Tomoe Gozen
MIYANOKOSHI FORTRESS
Tale of the Warrior Geisha Page 10