Tale of the Warrior Geisha

by Margaret Dilloway

  Yoshinaka frowned. Kanehira ran forward. “It is the mighty Kiso, who has come to be shōgun!”

  The people were silent, but they moved closer to one another.

  Tomoe knew Yoshinaka fumed that people recognized and were impressed with her, instead of him. He gripped Demon’s reins so tight his knuckles went white. “Come on, then, Tomoe. I’m sure Go-Shirakawa wants to meet you more than anyone.”

  —

  The palace was no fortress, but a tall building with a peaked dark brown wooden roof higher than Tomoe had ever seen before, higher than she imagined was possible to build, leading to slightly sweeping angles. The sides of the rectangular building were all open, covered near the top in open wooden scrollwork, in an abstract chrysanthemum pattern. Then, below those, shoji screens, then rolled-up bamboo blinds. The grounds surrounding the palace were impressive, with large koi ponds and curved bridges, contemplative rock gardens, intricately trimmed bonsai bushes. Tomoe wondered what the inside would be like.

  A page in silken black robes more luxurious than any Tomoe had ever seen on a woman, let alone a man, ran up to them through the open wooden gates. Here even the dust he kicked up seemed more refined, as if it was incapable of dirtying their clothes. “Joukou will see you, Kiso.” He flushed. “Er, Yoshinaka.”

  Tomoe started forward. Yoshinaka held up a hand. He cast her an imperious glance. “Tomoe, wait for us outside the palace.”

  She wanted to protest, but did not dare shame him by defying him openly here. Tomoe stopped where she was. Yoshinaka and Kanehira walked ahead, following the page. “Be careful,” she said quietly. The gates closed solidly behind them. She hoped Kanehira could keep Yoshinaka’s famously bad temper in check, and that Yoshinaka would not call Joukou by his real name in front of him. He was only a cloistered emperor, but he could still have Yoshinaka’s head.

  They would be hours inside. Tomoe took heart in how Yoshinaka had walked in calmly, instead of with his army ready to battle. Perhaps Kanehira and the emperor could reason with him. They would tell him to wait there, to join his cousin’s troops, to help Yoritomo defeat the rest of the Taira for good. That was the best plan.

  She decided to walk around the city. Perhaps there was still a stall open where she could buy some silks for Yamabuki. She had a small bag of rice on her she could trade. She would have dried fish for dinner. It would be worth it to see Yamabuki’s sickly face light up. What a silly woman she was, to be thinking of silks and kimonos in a time of war. Yet Tomoe couldn’t help it. She thought of Yamabuki, sick in Shinowara, and wanted to bring her some small bit of beauty. Yamabuki would have dearly loved to see this place again. Being with Yoshinaka’s people, out in the wilderness, escaping from one home or another, was killing her. Plain and simple.

  Would she wake up? Tomoe wouldn’t think of that. She would force Yamabuki back from the grave, no matter how much she wanted to be in it.

  She left the imperial grounds and saw twenty or so of Yoshinaka’s men engaged in a betting game, throwing dice on the ground. A die hit her foot, the red one-spot glaring up at her. “Any word?” one asked her.

  She withdrew her foot without touching the die. “No.” The men had an air of restlessness. Soon, they thought, they would be ruling this city. Yoshinaka would make all of them lords. They would make luxurious homesteads and have access to the best of everything. “Behave yourselves,” she said.

  The men bowed their heads.

  She wandered around, Cherry Blossom following, passing more closed places than open, when she came across a stall selling silk and other luxury goods, probably for the nobles in the area. There was a beautiful orange silk with red flowers and fans on it. She stopped there, wondering if her bag of rice would be enough payment.

  The woman behind the table squinted at Tomoe. She was perhaps fifteen years older than Tomoe, with jet-black hair streaked with white. She had a large, dark mole on her upper lip. Her face was crosshatched with fine wrinkles. She looked vaguely familiar.

  “I’m glad to see at least one person has stayed open,” Tomoe said to the seller.

  The woman bowed, revealing her blackened teeth. Tomoe thought this was old-fashioned for someone who lived in the city. “Konnichiwa, beautiful one. We heard there were new soldiers in town, so I ran over to open our stall. Business,” she added ruefully, “has been terribly slow since the Taira left.”

  “Of course.” Tomoe put her hand above the silk, not wanting her dirty hands to ruin it. “I will take this, please.” She showed the woman her bag of rice.

  The woman bowed, but not before she could disguise the greed in her eyes. “My dear, this is worth far more than a single bag of rice. A few coins, too?”

  “Were the Taira good to you, Obāsan?” Tomoe asked. Old lady; it was a term of respect.

  The woman stiffened. Tomoe thought it was because she had brought up the Taira. “Why do you not call me oneesan?” she asked, her voice changing and getting higher.

  Tomoe blanched. Oneesan was what you called a woman slightly older than you. This woman was indeed vain. Tomoe bowed. “Sumimasen.” This woman did look so familiar. Tomoe squinted at her. That face shape, that nose. Recognition flooded her. Could it be?

  Tomoe swallowed and handed over a few Chinese coins, plus the bag of rice. The woman reached out her hand as eagerly as a tree roots reach for water. She wrapped the silk in a less fine bolt of cloth and tied it shut with a string.

  Tomoe spoke up again. “This is for the woman I serve.”

  The woman stared at her blankly.

  Tomoe tested her. “The wife of General Yoshinaka. The one who is in Miyako now.”

  The woman stiffened. “Yoshinaka?” she said faintly. “You tell me Yoshinaka is here? And you are his concubine?”

  Tomoe bowed. “His wife is Yamabuki. She is from this city. Do you know her?” She watched the woman’s face closely.

  The woman’s nostrils flared and the mole twitched. Yes, she was sure this was Yamabuki’s mother. Desperate times must have reached her family for her to become a common merchant instead of a noble’s wife. “I do not,” the woman said, and began putting away the other bolts of cloth. “Sumimasen. It is time for me to close.”

  “He’s not here for you, you know,” Tomoe said sharply. “You need not think yourself so important.”

  The woman stopped moving, her hands on a blue bolt of cloth. “Tell me,” she said, with her bent back to Tomoe, “how is she?”

  “Thriving,” Tomoe lied. “Three children. And her husband to be shōgun. Pity you weren’t nicer to her.”

  She took satisfaction in seeing the stunned look on the awful woman’s face. Let her worry and fret. Tomoe turned and left.

  She smiled a little bit, fastening her purchase to Cherry Blossom.

  Tomoe was almost to the palace again when she smelled smoke. Not the smoke from vendors cooking food or fires to keep warm, but many flames. She began running to the palace.

  Outside the palace, the gambling soldiers had abandoned their game. Now an especially burly one had his arms around a young woman’s back, holding her up. Two more hoisted up the girl’s legs while a third stood between them, tearing apart her kimono and five more stood close around her, leering. “Hey!” Tomoe said sharply, but they ignored her. The man untied his trouser pants and let them fall to the ground.

  Tomoe shoved her way through the group to get to the girl. It was like pushing through a wild dog pack tearing apart its prey. How quickly war turned into savagery. Men into beasts. She pushed at the man between the girl’s legs. Either they didn’t recognize her or they ignored her on purpose. “Stop at once! That is an order.” The soldier didn’t stop, so intent was he on shoving his way into the girl. The girl screamed and thrashed, spit flying from her mouth. The other soldiers pawed at the girl’s her chest, her mouth.

  Tomoe slit the attacker’s throat.

 
He fell to the ground with a burble.

  She grabbed another attacker’s arm, held his palm firm against her chest, and twisted his wrist with all her body. It snapped and he screeched. She held it for a few seconds longer than necessary, making sure he felt that extra bit of pain, her mouth twisting as he sank to his knees. At last the other soldiers set the girl down and they stumbled away, falling into an empty vendor stall, crashing through the dry and cracked boards.

  “You drunkards,” she shouted. “You are released from the Minamoto army. I will behead all of you.” She helped the girl stand up. “Are you all right? You’re safe.”

  The girl was no more than thirteen. She nodded fearfully, clutching her torn kimono around her.

  “Run home.” She glanced at the palace, and her stomach dropped. The magnificent roof was aflame, the fire rising high above the capital. “Tell your family to flee the city,” she said. “Get to safety. Now.” The girl scrambled away.

  Tomoe ran through the great wooden gates of the palace, open now, to the once-peaceful courtyard, with its great bronze gong atop a platform, facing the building. Yes, the living wing was on fire. “This cannot be. This cannot be.” Her feet hit the ground hard in a thump-thump-thump, fast as a jackrabbit.

  She found Yoshinaka in the courtyard with her brother and a half-dozen other men, at the bottom of the steep steps leading up to the gong. All of them stood with their backs to her, firing blazing arrows almost lazily into the palace walls, each melting through the shoji screens, through the beautiful wooden scrollwork. The smoke was deadly thick, and Tomoe lifted her kimono to her nose, trying to filter it out.

  “Is this enough, Yoshinaka?” Kanehira asked calmly.

  “Not yet,” Yoshinaka said. “Go to the back and start a fire there as well. We have not gotten our answer yet.”

  Alongside Yoshinaka, a tiny figure stood. “Tomoe Gozen. Help me,” the small figure pleaded.

  She looked down at him. Beside Yoshinaka stood a shrunken and stooped old man, bald and thin, his back marred by a hump. He was covered in soot and blood and dirt; at first, Tomoe thought he was a beggar.

  Joukou. Go-Shirakawa. This little emperor who had abdicated his throne rather than face the Taira. Who had traded his well-being for the well-being of Japan. Always changing his mind according to political winds. At first he supported the Taira, then the Minamoto. Now he would say he was supporting Yoshinaka, but turn around and betray him to Yoritomo. Tomoe was certain of this.

  The little man cried, fat tears squeezing out of his ancient eyes. “Help me, Tomoe Gozen.”

  Yoshinaka shouted at her. “No, he is not your emperor, Tomoe. You bow to no one! Go-Shirakawa is a faithless traitor!”

  Tomoe gasped. Yoshinaka had said the emperor’s forbidden name again, in front of him. If the emperor had his guards with him and any real power, Yoshinaka’s head would be on the ground. She ran up to him, put her arms around him. “What are you doing?”

  “I am destroying the city.” Yoshinaka shrugged off her hands. He spoke as if he had told her he was fishing or going for a walk. He took a swig from a bottle one of the men offered. His dark eyes reflected the flames. “Go-Shirakawa is my prisoner until he makes me shōgun.”

  Tomoe took a step back. His face was like the face of one of these stone dragons decorating the garden. Unrecognizable. For the first time in her life, she truly feared Yoshinaka.

  She stood her ground anyway. Her lungs ached from the fire. “How can you rule a lost city? What good does it do us to destroy everything? This palace has stood for hundreds of years! Look what you have done to it, to Japan! You might be shōgun, but you’re not the emperor.”

  Go-Shirakawa’s tiny, wizened almond eyes widened. “Allow me to cooperate. You won’t let me have a chance to help you!” His voice was soothing.

  Yoshinaka glowered at him and shot another burning arrow into the palace. The emperor winced. “Make me shōgun and I’ll set you free. I’ll order my men to stop destroying the city.”

  Go-Shirakawa sank, nearly fainting. Tomoe steadied him. He trembled and felt as dry as a leaf in wind. The old man closed his eyes, another fit of coughing overtaking him. “Very well. I will. You are shōgun.”

  Go-Shirakawa, because the child emperor was kidnapped, was now the acting emperor by default and therefore did have the authority to make Yoshinaka the shōgun. Nonetheless, he was merely placating Yoshinaka, the same way little Yoshitaka had pretended he was a tiger and made them all call him Tiger, and she had said, “Of course you are.” Go-Shirakawa would take it back instantly. It wasn’t real.

  Yoshinaka smiled and pointed to the bronze gong, bigger than two men, standing on top of a platform. “Tomoe, hit the gong.”

  “Yoshinaka! You’ve gone mad,” she cried. She was so in shock, her voice was tiny, an unheard bell clinking in the middle of a battle. She thought of Kaneto, the disappointment he would have in her for letting this happen. “Stop this at once,” she said, her voice loud now, ringing through the courtyard, against the burning building. She wondered how many more times she would have to hear herself say these words. She had been saying them to Yoshinaka since he was a toddler. She had no more words for him, and no more strength. She wanted to weep, and she wanted to be done.

  “Do not defy me.” Yoshinaka’s eyes bulged out, the whites completely red. He shoved her aside, so hard that she fell to the ground, catching herself with her hands. He ran up the steps, three at time, and hit the gong himself. It clattered through Tomoe’s bones like an earthquake. She fell to her knees.

  Then Kanehira yanked Go-Shirakawa to his feet, propelling him roughly up the steps, collaring him to a standing position aside Yoshinaka. “Attention!” Go-Shirakawa shouted weakly. “Attention, Miyako.” Yoshinaka hit the gong again. No citizens came running into the courtyard. There were no witnesses. Nobody cared. Only their own people. The little man nodded. “Yoshinaka, I make you shōgun.” Kanehira let go of the emperor to drop into a bow, and the little man stumbled to his bottom.

  Yoshinaka raised his arms in a victorious salute. “At last. Officially. I am the shōgun.”

  One of their soldiers ran into the courtyard. “The warrior monks are here! They fight with your cousin.” He looked up at Yoshinaka, waiting.

  Yoshinaka grinned. “Well, then we shall go meet them. Let them know who their new leader is.”

  This was beyond insane. Go-Shirakawa would simply rescind the shōgun order as soon as he was safe. “Yoshi.” Tomoe held her arms out. Sobs wrenched from her chest. “Stop. Please, stop.”

  He looked at her, cocking his head, examining her face as if she were a stranger. Finally, after a few moments, he seemed to know her. “Tomoe Gozen,” he said in a low voice.

  Yoshinaka clattered down the steps to her. She took a breath. He bent, and he was at once the little boy she had rescued from the ice, the boy who defended her from the mean girls, the teenage boy she had kissed in the orchard, the young man who had held her beloved father as he died, the father of the children she loved as her own. The man she was bound to over all things, forever. He set down his bow and arrow and clasped her hands with his. She glanced down, at how they covered her own, at the blood and soot underneath his fingernails. “You must understand. Yoritomo will kill me either way. No matter if I stayed out of Miyako or took it over or found the child emperor Antoku or killed off Munemori Taira. This way”—he put his forehead against hers—“this way, I had a chance. Even if it was not a good chance. It was more than nothing.”

  Tomoe’s eyes filled. She hadn’t wanted to admit it, had fought against the idea for days, but he was correct. Yoshinaka had been necessary only for military victory, not for the ruling of a country. In that, Yoshinaka was nothing but a detriment. Yoritomo would kill Yoshinaka, just as his father had killed Yoshinaka’s. Yoshinaka could not run forever. He could not stand against his cousin and win.

  Tomoe rest
ed her head, just for a moment, on Yoshinaka’s shoulder, trying to breathe in his smell once more. But the smoke was too strong. There was none of him left. Oh, Yoshi, she thought. Where did you go?

  “You must leave, Tomoe.” He spoke into her hair, his arms heavy around her. “Take Cherry Blossom and go; return to our family and protect Yamabuki.” He kissed the top of her head softly and embraced her more tightly, pressing her face against the roughness of his woven bamboo armor.

  She felt as she had when her father died. This cannot be real, she thought again. Her blood seemed to slow in her veins. She would part without recriminations or sorrow. She would allow him this final grace.

  Tomoe’s tears streaked clean lines down the front of his dirty armor as she choked back an escaping sob. She nodded numbly. “Yes. I will go back to Yamabuki and await you there.” She felt the warmth of his body for the final time, then stepped away.

  “Tomoe.” Yoshinaka spoke tenderly. She gazed up at him, her Yoshi, waiting. A faint smile played on his lips. “You were always first.” He raised her chin and kissed her deeply on the mouth, the heat of him entering her body. She could taste, still, the sweet cherries through the soot.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Tomoe Gozen

  SHINOWARA TOWN

  KAGA PROVINCE

  HONSHU, JAPAN

  Winter 1184

  Without battles to fight, or men to wait for, alone, Tomoe made the weeklong journey back to Shinowara as though in a dream. Sun and darkness passed without her notice. Frosty rain pummeled her, soaking her to the skin, and she did not take cover. The kimono hung in tatters, the mud hardening like stone, and she did not bother to change. She ate only enough to sustain her and could not remember what she had eaten.

  Yoshinaka and her brother were dead. She was as sure of this as she was sure of her horse’s loyalty. Something had died inside Tomoe, too, some spark she didn’t know she’d had until it was gone.