The Pillow Book of the Flower Samurai

by Barbara Lazar

  ‘This is a new edict by the regent!’

  I waited until the emotion had left his face. In private, Michimori did not often agree with the decisions his uncles and cousins made.

  He glared at the edict, eyebrows down. ‘Now everyone is gathering, like geese to eat.’

  ‘Does this mean that Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa, Fox, is renegotiating the Taira lands?’ I touched the back of his clenched hand with my index finger. This was an attack on our Clan. Yes, Taira had become my clan due to my great sympathy for my husband.

  He said, ‘There is much honour but little sword among us. It had better change, and soon.’

  V. Birth Anniversary and The Coin

  Michimori and I formed a single skilled archer with our synchronicity. He educated me in the partisan histories, language and innuendoes. I taught him that someone who bragged of conquests and wealth, yet wore low-quality silk was a liar. The way a head was held, the darting of eyes, the rapidity of blinks yielded information about a speaker’s honesty. Michimori and I conversed and compared notes, our postulations and theories. We blended into better friends than Tashiko and I had been.

  I became aware that my feelings for him had changed, and I wrote to him in my much-practised and not-much-improved brush:

  Winter chills dissolved

  Brown tree limbs against blue sky

  Now spring has thawed all

  Green growing all around me

  Spring’s sun is your countenance

  I planned an elaborate celebration for his birth anniversary with food and fine sake. It coincided with the Second Day of the Bird, the Kamo Festival, in the Fourth Month. Musicians, dancers, jugglers and players participated, since the massive and country-wide forty-nine-day Funeral Rites for Michimori’s uncle had finished. Multi-coloured hollyhocks bedecked everything: clothes, buildings, houses, carriages and palanquins, while most people’s heads and necks were garlanded.

  In the morning we travelled to the palace where the exquisite bagaku, the courtly dances, were performed.

  ‘This is the left style of bagaku,’ Tokikazu said, near me as usual.

  ‘What is the difference between the left and right styles?’ I asked, and Akio leaned forward to listen.

  ‘The left style is favoured by the emperor, because it originates from China and Dai Viet rather than Koryō and north-east China.’

  This meant nothing to me.

  At the Hour of the Horse, with the sun directly above us, a great parade twined to the Lower Kamo Shrine. I scoured the packs of priests, all in headscarves or cowls, for the deformed nose that was seared into my mind. The dust bothered Misuki, but not me. Thousands of people and rows upon rows of carriages waited. My hand was wrapped around the handle of my sword, ready to strike.

  The string of imperial envoys in elaborate clothing carried the emperor’s gifts to the Gods for Purification and prayer. Tokikazu remained close and conversed with me, studiedly casual. He was in or near my carriage all the time. Which of those veiled monks was Goro? My fingers tightened around an imaginary bow.

  After the several days of festivity, I went to Michimori’s chambers as usual. He said, mostly to himself, ‘The imperial envoys brought superior gifts from the emperor this year to Taka-Okami, the Dragon-God-Residing-on-the-Mountain, the God of Rain and Snow. Our western provinces are in drought.’

  ‘Is that why I see so many farmers in the city?’

  ‘Yes, we need rain. Badly. My provinces produce little rice.’

  Sitting next to him, I wished him a joyous birth anniversary. ‘I have something to say. I have wanted to tell you for some time, but decided to wait for a propitious day.’

  He sat up and gazed directly at me. ‘Yes?’ he whispered, in formal language, which honoured me.

  ‘When I first saw you in Fukuhara, you asked me to tell you what was in my heart. I said that there were admiration, respect, gratitude and . . . fear. That has changed, my honourable lord,’ I answered, also in formal language.

  He leaned over and placed my hand across his broad palm. His gaze penetrated my skin. ‘Yes?’ he whispered again. His voice swept me into him.

  ‘Now there are admiration, respect and gratitude, but no fear. And, further, I . . . There is . . . I have . . . sympathy for you.’

  I waited in silence, believing this would please him and because I did not know how he would react. He stood up. Silent.

  Had I displeased him with this reminder of my previous feelings? Would he be angry, annoyed or satisfied?

  He thrust his large hands around me and lifted me off the floor. Thundering, guffawing, he threw me into the air repeatedly, catching me each time as if I were a pillow. Placing me on the futon, he moved closer and loosened my clothing. Holding me, he stroked my face and body, and I did the same for him.

  He placed his face against my neck; his tears wet my skin. We looked into each other’s spirits. We pledged devotion, as I had with Tashiko but had long ago given up hope of experiencing again. When we quieted for the night, I presented him with a poem I had written for him with my new brush, which I had practised over and over until it was almost acceptable. With Obāsan’s connections, I had located some beautiful blue paper without him knowing and also enclosed a crane’s feather:

  An empty nest waits

  The cranes return for each spring

  Two fly side by side, Wing edges almost touching

  Each knowing the way home

  He read it several times, touching my hair with one hand and holding the poem with the other. As he began stroking me, he said quietly, ‘We finally feel the same. When trouble comes to you – and I know it will – allow me to be a full partner in your plans, not simply in the background. My loyal samurai were disguised as servants to Norahito. My fighting iris, you might have been hurt, or worse. My soul could not live, if you were not with me.’

  Tears trickled, but I managed to say, ‘Nor I you, my lord.’

  Soon my head swirled as his sturdy hands fondled my breasts and hips.

  We satisfied each other meticulously, both weeping for rapture.

  Every day I recited a sutra from the Lotus Sutra to protect Michimori: atte natte nunatte anado nadi kunadi.

  While I no longer feared him, my new feelings increased my fears for him.

  Summer carried harsher droughts throughout the west, with famine and plague. Nonetheless I continued learning from my tutors and in martial arts. I attempted to focus on these activities, not on the horrors of the city.

  Crickets shrilled and shrieked on the practice field from midday to evening. Summer was gone. Tokikazu and the other samurai, including Akio, were pleased with my new skills, my bow and sword and sometimes my writing.

  Tokikazu approached, almost touching. ‘You are evolving. Near swordlessness with your sword, Kozaishō. What the Chronicles call “the wondrous power to vanish suddenly”.’

  Akio stepped closer and scowled at him. Tokikazu strolled away.

  The returning wild geese created a dark grey cloud covering the sky when we stopped to take refreshment one day in autumn. Tokikazu and I, at his request, walked far away from the others, although Akio, ever vigilant, monitored us from a distance. With his back to Akio, Tokikazu reached into his quiver. ‘This is for you to keep.’

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, of the closed fist he held in front of me.

  ‘It is a rice ball with a Chinese coin in it.’ He lowered his voice, which I thought odd since we were at a distance from others. ‘The Taikan tsuho is a coin with a square centre.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I answered, not understanding the gift, but aware of his feelings for me. I hoped it was not to buy my favours.

  He kept enough space between us to satisfy Akio. ‘This is for you to keep. If you ever need me to come to you, send this coin to me, so I will know it is you and not a spy. It will be a signal between us. See? It is marked here on the edge so I will know it and that it is from you only.’

  He told me this story:

&
nbsp; Two samurai friends betrothed their newborn children. In good faith, the son’s father gave a golden pin to the girl’s father. Mysteriously the son’s entire family soon disappeared without a word.

  Seventeen years later the betrothed daughter, still faithful, died from sorrow. The golden pin was buried with her. Two months later, the son returned, telling of his family’s move, their poverty and the deaths of his parents.

  The samurai allowed the boy to live in the house near their garden. However, the older daughter had already died. When the samurai family returned from a pilgrimage, their younger daughter dropped something. The boy picked it up, not knowing it was the golden pin.

  That night the younger daughter came to the garden house and threatened the boy with dishonour if he did not make love with her. After many nights, the boy found he loved this daughter.

  Realising he could not marry because of his betrothal to her older sister, they fled, but after a year, the younger daughter feared for her parents and they returned. The young man approached the samurai to apologise for his sins. The samurai, surprised, explained that the younger daughter was still in their home, deathly ill. She had been sick for year. The young man checked, and the younger daughter was not outside.

  Suddenly the younger daughter appeared, in good health, holding the golden pin. She explained that the older sister’s spirit had lived in her for the year to appease her grief. If the boy married the younger sister, the older one would leave and go to her a final rest.

  Unbelievable as it was, the golden pin was evidence.

  ‘So we may meet in the next life. This coin will be our golden hairpin.’ He reached to touch me, then lowered his hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ I answered, letting the meaning of his words reach my heart. ‘You give much honour. My heart spills with your generosity.’ No one needed to know that a significant event had just taken place.

  I returned to Michimori and the others, working with the spear in a far-off corner of the fields. ‘As you may be aware, my dear Kozaishō, Michimori was not allowed to go to Echigo Province, where he would certainly have been of much help.’ Tokikazu continued the conversation in which we were supposed to have been engaged.

  ‘Yes. He was upset, so frustrated. I thought he would thrash the walls.’

  ‘That will be why he attacked the straw men for so long. He covered a whole field with straw before he had finished.’

  I looked at Tokikazu in discomfort. We both cared for Michimori deeply. We did not speak of the new Taira leader, Purple Grass, who lacked subtlety and knowledge of strategy. I doubted he had ever read The Art of War.

  ‘Our staunch ally, Jō no Sukenaga, was killed in battle with the Minamoto Rat.’

  ‘It is difficult to believe Rat and his army have not only been in many provinces but as far north as Echigo.’

  ‘That is why I gave you the coin.’

  Rokuhara was like an ancient animal shelter, every corner filled with spiders and flies. When I returned to my rooms, I did not know if I was the spider or the fly. I did not know if a bell remained where it was left, or whether everything had become a web, ready to catch any of us if we lapsed into the slightest inattention.

  VI. Gifts

  Late in the day or in the early morning, depending on Michimori’s audiences and other court duties, Tokikazu, Akio and I worked on the practice field. As my ease with Michimori increased, so it did with these samurai. More accepted now, I remembered that only recently I had held no rank.

  The Festival of the Weaver, the Seventh day of the Seventh Month, approached. Everyone watched the skies where the two stars, the lovers, the Weaver and the Herdsman, met. Like the emperor, Michimori spread leaves in the gardens and prepared for a sky-watching party, including special entertainment and food. Music was to be played all night, and the Magpie Dance, which I had never seen, would be performed. Misuki was praying for sewing and weaving activities. I planned to pray for music and poetry; my poor brush was better, but still not suitable.

  Tokikazu managed to sneak me away without Akio and led me on a tour of the sword foundry. I had been careful not to be alone with him – his reputation as a libertine fuelled Misuki’s gossip. However, his behaviour of late had been entirely correct.

  Observing the prayers and rituals before forging a sword was like being a little girl again, in a shrine with my birth family. The rituals and chanting comforted me, yet memories of my family saddened me. The assistants rested until the master folded the hot metal. The rhythm of their mallets pounding relaxed me. The fire recalled the strength of Amaterasu, the Sun Goddess, early days at Chiba’s shōen – and my plans for Goro. If fire could mould plain metal into the soul of a samurai, perhaps my plans for Norahito’s associates and Goro’s destruction could be fashioned to protect me.

  The next day Akio took me aside. ‘After archery practice you should go to the shed across from the pavilion. We have a guest with a crooked nose you might be interested in visiting. Do not worry. The gift is well wrapped . . . and guarded.’ He smirked.

  Crooked nose! Goro – here? I shivered, suddenly cold. ‘Why can I not go now?’

  ‘We want to maintain as much secrecy as possible, little one.’ He used his old name for me. ‘Keep to your normal routine and be mindful. You do not have “bad days” with the bow any more.’

  Practice consumed every arrow ever created for the entire city. I demonstrated no ‘bad day’, thanks to Akio’s admonishments and my determination. Goro’s face as the target assisted my aim. When would everyone else leave?

  Hours later, after the field had emptied, Michimori and I walked past the pavilion to the shed. Tokikazu and Sadakokai stood, daggers and swords at the ready, attending a fettered and muffled man in priests’ clothing. They barely took their gaze from their prisoner as we came in.

  ‘Yes, honourable Lord Taira no Michimori.’ Tokikazu addressed my husband formally.

  ‘How is our “friend” doing?’ Michimori sneered.

  ‘He refuses to confess. He maintains his innocence.’

  ‘Pull down that gauze. Let my lady look upon that face.’

  The muscles of my legs and arms tightened and I was unsure that I could walk. I was to avenge Tashiko, Emi and myself. My honour would be restored.

  I feasted my eyes on the face of the priest with the broken nose.

  Every tight muscle relaxed. He bore a remarkable resemblance to Goro. I understood why Tokikazu had mistaken him for Goro. ‘This is not he.’

  Heads turned to Michimori for direction.

  ‘Untie him, have him swear an oath of silence, then send him with a small escort to the monastery near Ise. That will be enough distance.’

  Because of the formality of the situation, I did not cry but I wanted to scream. Not him! Where was he? I needed his head on a spear before my spirit could rest, before Tashiko’s spirit could rest, before my honour could be restored.

  Misuki explained to me that it was customary to offer gifts on the day after the Festival of the Weaver. I managed to find her a new robe and a writing box, complete with ink stone, brushes and a fine selection of papers.

  Michimori presented me with a new set of armour in the shikime zane style. ‘Here,’ he said, his head bobbing with satisfaction. ‘See? The scales are assembled, twice overlapping. Triple thickness, extra protection for you, my samurai woman.’ His eyes shone with joy, and I reflected my delight back to him. The shikime zane style was rare, a magnanimous gift. I shared a poem of gratitude with him.

  My happiness was transient. My throat closed when I saw that Akio and Tokikazu each held a furoshiki.

  ‘Because you have finally mastered both the Thunder Stroke and Scarf Sweep Stroke, you have earned this,’ Tokikazu announced.

  Ceremoniously he gave me a sword, including a golden rabbit ornament in the handle. The tsuba showed the closed-wing butterfly of the Taira Clan. The belt cord of thickened peacock-blue silk was wrapped around a scabbard with a makie design of gold and silver trees, as radia
nt as the Sun Goddess.

  Michimori glanced at Tokikazu in a way I did not recognise, grunted, then turned and strolled away.

  My throat pinched, and tears leaped. I held the sword on my outstretched hands. I extended them further from my body so that I did not wet the blade or its scabbard. When my elation overcame my confusion, I found my voice. ‘I am honoured more than I have words to express.’

  I slipped the slightly convex cutting edge out of its scabbard. I held it for all to see, then replaced it in its scabbard. Next, I anchored it at my waist as I had done so many times with my bokken. Tokikazu smiled. His eyes gleamed. I shared this poem:

  Shining in the sun

  My tachi, a friend’s gift,

  Smiles in the green field.

  A gift earned with so much toil,

  A gift of loving protection.

  Tokikazu grinned openly, and Akio’s face brightened, still ruddy from practice.

  His massive shoulders tightened. ‘I, too, have brought you a Weaver Star Festival present,’ Akio said, in a low growl.

  I tried not to show surprise at his anger, which was rare in him, except when he was near Tokikazu. The bulky package revealed a quiver, with rabbits running through trees in carved wood and mother-of-pearl. He had remembered.

  Tears blurred my eyes. I thanked him for his graciousness and recited another poem.

  Akio turned and towered over Tokikazu. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I do not understand. We are merely giving Weaver Festival gifts to the Lady Kozaishō.’ Tokikazu’s body tensed like thick bamboo.

  ‘I do not like what is happening here. It is not honourable. Desist.’ Akio’s growl had changed to a torrential waterfall.

  ‘Akio, I have no idea what you mean.’

  Akio put his hands on his hips. ‘I will be direct with you because I want – and Kozaishō needs – this to stop.’