In spite of Yasuko's efforts to put him at his ease, Kiyomori remained silent. His pounding heart made him flush more deeply. Ruriko saw this and turned crimson. Her eyelids fluttered and drooped as though she faced a glare, and an audible sigh escaped from her lips.
Kiyomori felt a familiar, nauseating sensation come over him as he stood beside his mother. (Beautiful and deceitful, that she was!) He felt impelled to question her once more. Was he the son of an emperor or of a debauched priest? Who was his real father? An insupportable grief over her unchasteness seemed to goad him to seek an answer. To him she now seemed more sullied than all the common whores and courtesans in the capital.
In a period of grossly unrestrained relations between the sexes, Kiyomori realized that he expected of his mother a chastity that he had no reason to demand. Yet as her child, her son, he had wanted to believe that she was the purest of women, the noblest, the archetype of love itself. From those infant years when he had nursed at her breast, he had gazed up at this ideal—his mother; throughout his boyhood, the figure had not changed, until with Morito's revelation she was transformed into a soiled lump of flesh. Utterly revolted, Kiyomori felt her uncleanness to be also his; until that time he had been happy in the thought that the blood of Tadamori of the Heike and a chaste mother ran in his veins, but now he felt only a self-loathing.
On that night when he met Morito and was told of his mother's past, Kiyomori in rage and despair cast his youth and innocence to a whore. The contempt for his mother was that which he now felt for himself. He loathed his own flesh and his blood; the only thing that held him back from a course of lust and dissipation was Tadamori, this man who was not his real father, the Squint-Eyed One whose great love and forbearance he could not bring himself to spurn. Tadamori's love alone made Kiyomori vow that he would be a worthy son and keep watch over his unruly passions.
The sight of his mother was enough to make Kiyomori forget his resolutions. He wondered if this turbulent blood was all that he had got from her.
Yasuko was disappointed and annoyed. Kiyomori showed no signs of relenting toward her. She had expected him to come to her with tears. She was also irritated by his indifference to Ruriko and his studied absorption in the sights around them.
"Heita, what makes you hesitate so? Are you afraid that Tadamori will hear of this?" she finally asked.
"Yes—my father is here and I fear he will see us."
"Does that matter? Though Tadamori and I have separated, you are still my son, aren't you? I know how lonely and miserable you and your little brothers are without me."
"No!" Kiyomori quickly retorted. "My brothers, the horses in the stable, and all are well and happy. No one ever speaks of you!"
Yasuko laughed quickly to conceal the change that came over her face, and, for some reason that Kiyomori could not make out, seized his wrist and clung to it.
"And you—you have never wanted to see me?"
Kiyomori struggled. "Let me go. My father is looking this way. He sees us. Let me go!"
"Heita!" Yasuko exclaimed, giving him an arch smile. "Tadamori is not your father, though I am your real mother. What makes you so partial to him? You must come to see me, Heita, for I often long for a sight of you. And Ruriko will be good company for you, too."
Kiyomori once more struggled to free his wrist, certain that his father had seen him by now.
Beyond the tumult of the crowds and the dust writhing over the course, the sun paled, marking the end of the races and the long day. The Emperor and the ex-Emperor left their pavilion, followed by their attendants, and turned their steps toward the Kamo Shrine, where, to the accompaniment of sacred music, priests performed the rites of lustration. Once more the assemblage repaired to the pavilion, there to drink a toast to the winners and to watch the jockeys receive the royal congratulations.
The formal presentation of trophies took place in the autumn at a court banquet, when the winners claimed their stakes—placer gold, rolls of silk, and rare incense. At the nightlong feasting, warriors and courtiers alike drank freely of the abundant wine. Victor and vanquished alike danced and sang. Victory was the beginning of defeat, defeat the beginning of victory. This was the natural law, the ever-revolving Buddhist Wheel of Life. To the courtiers flushed with wine, life was pleasure, and pleasure life. What was victory, or what defeat? Had not the Fujiwara prospered for three hundred years, and had not success and even more success been theirs for generations?
This day of the Kamo races was only an interlude in the long pursuit of pleasure. Above the cherry trees, thick with leaf, rose the moon. The Emperor's coach and the ex-Emperor's carriage rolled away from the course, followed by those of the courtiers and officials.
Tadamori left the Palace late that night, in a happy mood, for the ex-Emperor had been in good humor all day. Mokunosukй usually came to meet his master, bringing him his horse, but tonight Tadamori found Kiyomori waiting for him at the Guard Office.
"Where is Mokunosukй?" he asked.
"He was here tonight, but I sent him home and told him I would wait for you," Kiyomori replied.
As he climbed to his saddle, Tadamori remarked: "So you waited for me. You look tired, Heita."
Kiyomori grasped the leading reins and looked up at his father in the starlight. Should he or should he not tell? He must speak, though the telling might hurt his father. Kiyomori had sent Mokunosukй home and waited for this chance to be alone with his father. If Tadamori had not seen him that afternoon, it would be better to say nothing, he thought. He was certain, however, that his father had seen him even at that distance. His father would never bring up the matter, for it was like him to keep his loneliness and sorrows to himself. Why should he let a shadow be cast over his father again? Pondering thus to himself, Kiyomori found that the horse had led him almost to Imadegawa, and decided to speak to his father after all.
"Father, did you know that my mother was at the races?"
"So it seemed."
"I did not really want to see her again, but she called to me so that I finally went to her."
"You did?" said Tadamori, narrowing his eyes and scrutinizing his son. He did not seem displeased, so Kiyomori continued half apologetically:
"She looked as young as ever, decked out like a shrine virgin or a lady-in-waiting. But I had no tears for her. I could not feel that she was my mother."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Heita," was Tadamori's quiet reply.
"Why, Father?"
"There's nothing so pitiful as a motherless child, Heita. That you should see her and yet force yourself to disown your mother was most callous."
"I am your son. I can get along without a mother!" Kiyomori said hotly.
The figure on horseback shook his head. "You are wrong, Heita. If anyone has hardened your heart, then the fault is mine, for I have let my children look upon our incessant quarrels in a loveless home. It was I that let your mother appear unsightly to you. It was my fault. It is unnatural for a son to feel as you do. Be frank, Heita, if you wish to see your mother, go and visit her."
"How can that woman be my mother? She has been unfaithful to her husband, and does not love her children, and thinks of nothing but satisfying her whims!" Kiyomori protested.
"You must not speak of her as I have been prone to do, Heita. You have little reason to say such things of her. You and she are forever mother and child. Love that forgives all is the truest love and will surely bring you together."
Kiyomori did not answer. He could not understand his father. Was it because his father was too profound, or was he himself still too young to understand?
When they reached their home, Mokunosukй, Heiroku, and the other retainers met them at the gate. Lights flickered over the unkempt garden and the modest clean-swept, wooden stoop of the house. This simple, harmonious, and well-ordered life had not been theirs until three months ago. Kiyomori wondered what reason he had to regret his mother's going. There was no room for loneliness now, and why could his father not beli
eve this?
CHAPTER IV
A LADY IN THE MOONLIGHT
That year, in mid-August, Wataru of the Genji invited some ten of his closest friends in the Guards to come and share a large jar of wine with him and view the moonlight in his garden. His friends, however, knew that there was another reason for the invitation. In the autumn the Emperor and the ex-Emperor were going on a pilgrimage to the Ninna-ji Temple. They were also attending the races which would be held in the temple compound. The official date of this event had already been announced—the 23rd of September—and the Guards knew that Wataru was waiting impatiently for a chance to prove himself and the black four-year-old with the white fetlocks.
"It's to drink to his success," Wataru's friends told each other. One of them jokingly added: "He's afraid to appear stingy, since it's customary for riders to give a large party for relatives and friends after the 'whip ritual' has been performed. Wataru has no love for these priests. He scoffs at those 'holy Buddhas,' as he calls them, saying he doesn't need their help. So instead of all the prayers and incantations, and a big banquet, he calls this a moon-viewing party!" The remark was greeted with much laughter.
Another Guard said: "Listen, you know how he feels about his young wife, Kesa-Gozen, who once served at Court. He is so infatuated with her that even on night duty all his thoughts are at home. We once asked to meet her, but all he would do was smile and say she was his 'secret love' and not to be seen, and so forth. I think he wants us to meet her tonight."
Thus talking and chaffing among themselves, the guests arrived at Wataru's house, where the gate stood wide open in welcome and the paving stones had been freshened with a sprinkling of water. Gathered in Wataru's guest-room, the young men fell silent and remained subdued while trays of food were brought in. It was not until the wine arrived that they once more were at their ease and talked and joked among themselves.
Heita Kiyomori and Sato Yoshikiyo were also there. Kiyomori noticed that Morito was not present, and was about to ask about him, but thought better of it. He had recently sensed that Wataru and Morito were uneasy in each other's company. No one else seemed to notice this, but Kiyomori often wondered if he was imagining this, for he found himself on his guard with Morito since the latter had told him the strange secret concerning his birth. Morito's behavior troubled Kiyomori. He feared for Morito, in whom, he knew, a keen mind battled with violent primitive lusts. Furthermore, he had observed the furtive look that came into Morito's eyes whenever he and Wataru were together. This look contrasted oddly with Morito's habitual swaggering. Nowadays, too, Morito went about with bloodshot eyes and haggard cheeks, and Kiyomori had concluded that he was nervously fatigued, from either excessive studying or else heavy drinking and dissipation. He concluded that Wataru disliked Morito and had not invited him.
The wine was passed around and the young warriors were now at their ease. "Come, host," they called, "isn't it time for her to appear? Stop tantalizing us!"
Wataru was pressing wine on Yoshikiyo, who sat with his cup untouched.
Lifting his cup at last, Yoshikiyo addressed Wataru: "I once attended a poetry contest at the Palace when a lady named Kesa-Gozen was applauded for her poems, so she is not entirely unknown to me. Now that she is the mistress of a household, I doubt that she has opportunities for composing verse. A pity that such talent should be lost to us! You must have her attend the poetry parties, Wataru, for we crude warriors most lack an appreciation of literary accomplishments and, what is more, despise them. . . . Might I then say that this warrior and his poet wife are like a graceful painting—the pine and the chrysanthemum—a most felicitous wedding? These men envy you. Can you blame them for being so jealous?"
Yoshikiyo laughed heartily. The wine made him expansive and less somber than usual. The guests grew boisterous, clamoring: "Yoshikiyo, talking of poetry again? Whenever that fellow opens his mouth, our wine grows cold!"
"Come, come, good host, bring out the real thing!"
"Quickly let her appear before us—your friends!"
They boistrously entreated and demanded that Wataru bring out his wife, until he finally asked: "Shall I call dancing-girls to entertain us in my humble home?"
"No, no! Let us have a glimpse of the lady—Kesa-Gozen—she who is lovelier than all the famous dancing-girls in this capital!"
Wataru, laughing, begged for mercy, protesting: "She is shy— she will not leave the kitchen, where she warms the wine for my guests and busies herself with pleasing them. I fear she will not come and let these lamps shine on her."
"Let us see the light in your kitchen, rather than the autumn moon," the guests shouted. One of them staggered to his feet and made for the kitchen, but Wataru sprang after him and dragged him back with promises to fetch his wife. The guests continued to badger Wataru, who was quite sober now; assuring them that he would present her fittingly as a warrior's wife, he begged them to wait a little longer and left the room. When he reappeared, he seated himself on the veranda which faced the garden, saying:
"The black colt that you know was entrusted to me now shows every sign of being a winner. I now look forward to entering him in the Ninna-ji races when the Emperor makes his pilgrimage, and hope to celebrate that occasion with you. Now tell me what you think of the colt."
Wataru's guests grew silent. They knew how Wataru had labored over the horse's training, even staking his reputation on it. No one complained that he had broken the promise made awhile ago, and they called out together: "Let's see him!"
Following his example, they seated themselves on the veranda facing on a small inner garden. The August moon shed enough brilliance for them to see the horse. Wataru faced the garden and called to someone.
Clop, clop, clop rang out the hoofs as the horse drew near. Crickets stopped chirring. The bushes near a bamboo fence stirred; dew rolled down among the leaves with a sound like the scattering of pearls. The garden gate swung open and a woman appeared, leading the colt by its reins. Noiselessly she stepped through the moonlight and then stopped in the middle of the garden.
The guests drew in their breath and made no sound—surprised, delighted, and amazed.
There stood the horse in the moonlight. His coat shone like jet, like the wet plumes of a raven. A noble beast with fine legs and magnificent muscles. There was no comparing him now with the colt of the spring. His long tail almost swept the earth, and the four white fetlocks gleamed as though he trod snow.
The guests, however, were not watching the horse, but the figure that stood silently bowing to them. This, then, was Kesa-Gozen?
She did not appear shy. A smile hovered on her lips as she turned to face the rearing horse, quieting it until it stood motionless.
Was it a trick of moonlight that made her look like the Kannon in the Dream Hall? Her fingers gleamed white to their very tips, and her long hair was as glossy as the horse's coat.
"Ah," Kiyomori sighed to himself, "I would have a wife, too, were there another such as she in this world!" He swallowed hard and then blushed furiously at the sound he made in his throat.
Night after night of moonlight succeeded one another. In the hills and on the plains the deer mated and squirrels danced among the wild grapevines. All the beasts of the fields seemed to be moonstruck.
Kiyomori, sitting at home, was restive. He watched his brother poring over his books by the light of a small lamp suspended near the old desk their mother had left behind, and itched to make fun of him. Here he was—eighteen—and not a thought of women in his head! He sighed for this sorry brother of his. There was nothing in the poor fellow's books that Kiyomori did not know. He watched Tsunemori. He had succumbed, Kiyomori thought, like so many other warrior youths these days, to the fad of borrowing books from the libraries of the Imperial Academy and the university—those Confucian classics in their Sung bindings from China, which had moldered undisturbed for some two hundred years on dusty shelves. What could Tsunemori possibly find interesting in Confucius' Analects or the Four Books
? He himself had pretended to listen and slept through those lectures expounding the Great Sage's teachings. The Confucian precepts were just ornaments, aimed only to promote the interests of the privileged, admonishing as they did the warriors and the common people to obey their superiors. By what authority had Confucius defined those codes governing the conduct of men? What had Confucius enjoyed in his lifetime, or what great deeds had he done? Had bloodshed ceased in China because of him?—thieves become honest men?—or liars reformed? Even the venerable sage had once been worsted in an argument with a notorious criminal and been reduced to human stature.
The Heike Story Page 7