by Kara Dalkey
With a cry of “Onward!” Kiyomori and his son led the small force of mounted men back through the snow, through the night, through the mountains that bordered Izumi and Kii Provinces. At dawn, at Mount Oninonakayama, yet another single horseman came riding toward them at great speed, on a gray horse.
“Who might it be?”
“How fierce he looks!”
“He must be coming from the Minomoto at Abeno, to issue their challenge.”
“Whatever message he carries,” said Kiyomori, “we must hear it.”
“Look,” said Shigemori, “he, too, bears the butterfly crest on his arm! He comes from Rokuhara.”
This messenger brought his horse alongside Kiyomori, and he bowed in his saddle. “My lord, I am glad I have found you.”
Kiyomori’s heart seemed to pause in his chest. “What news from Rokuhara?”
“Still standing, my lord, as of the middle of the night when I left. All of your family within are frightened but well, save one.”
“Save one?”
“Your son-in-law, the Harima Middle Commander Narinori, who came to us for protection. Alas, he was summoned by Imperial command, so we had no choice but to put him out.”
“What!” cried Shigemori. “How could we have done such a thing! One who has married into our clan comes to us for safety and we turn him over to the enemy? Who will ever trust us or join our cause if we treat people in this way?”
“They were afraid, my young lord,” said the messenger, “because you and your father are not there to rally their spirits.”
“We will be there soon enough,” said Shigemori.
“Perhaps,” said Kiyomori, firmly. He asked the messenger, “What of these rumors of a great Minomoto force waiting to ambush us at Abeno? How many are they, in truth, and how well prepared?”
The messenger blinked in surprise. “My lord, you have heard false news. There is an army at Abeno, but it is not Minomoto. Yoshitomo and his son, by order of the Great Commander Nobuyori, are keeping their forces in the capital. But at Abeno there are three hundred warriors led by Ito, who are waiting to see if you are returning so that they may join and fight with you.”
A cheer rose up from Kiyomori’s mounted warriors. “This is better news than I could have hoped for,” Kiyomori said. “Not only is there no enemy, but there are allies awaiting us! We shall grow from one hundred to four hundred. Let us hurry onward!”
They rode ahead, racing with one another to see which horseman would be first, and the sound of their hoofbeats was the rumbling of thunder of an approaching storm.
The Single—Copy Library
Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa and his sister Jōsaimon’in, sat dejectedly in the Single-Copy Library. Their afternoon meal lay uneaten beside them, like all the meals that had been delivered to them since their imprisonment. Very little light came in through the closed bamboo blinds. Now and then, a cold draft blew through the slats, bringing with it a few flakes of snow that swiftly melted in midair.
Jōsaimon’in pulled her kimonos tighter around her and gazed up at the scrolls and stacks of Michinoku paper on the shelves. “I had often wondered about this room,” she mused softly, “when we lived here at the Imperial palace. I think I visited this room once or twice in my dreams. I wondered what books could be so unloved that they would have but one copy made of them, and then be stored away never to be read again.”
“They are like us, neh?” said Go-Shirakawa. “Singular and unwanted, yet too valuable to destroy.”
Jōsaimon’in stared down at the wood planks of the floor. “What will become of us?”
“Impossible to say for certain,” said Go-Shirakawa. “I cannot imagine how my own son is permitting this to happen. He has no reason to hate me. He already has the throne. What possible threat could I be to him?”
“What if it is not Nijō’s will at all,” asked Jōsaimon’in, “and he has no say in what Nobuyori commands?”
“In that case I am forced to wonder what power Nobuyori has over my son. I wish I knew whether Kiyomori has returned to Heian Kyō yet. Surely the Taira will not allow this state of affairs to continue.”
“I wish I had died at Sanjō”—Jōsaimon’in sighed—“rather than suffer this horrible waiting.”
“Do not say such things, sister. Think of what terrible karma that would have brought upon the warriors responsible for your death. The shedding of Imperial blood is no trivial matter. Even Nobuyori will not risk his soul in that way. No doubt, if he remains in power, we will suffer the same fate as my brother, the Shin-In. We will be exiled to a far province where we may write our memoirs and sad poetry until our last days.”
“That is merely a lingering death,” said Jōsaimon’in. “To be haunting a place that is not home. Some say it drove the Shin-In to madness. I could well believe it would do the same to me.”
There came a scratching at the wooden door.
Jōsaimon’in stood and backed away from the door. “What is it? A rat? A demon?”
“Your Majesty,” came a muffled voice from the corridor outside.
“Who is it?” said Go-Shirakawa.
They heard the bolt barring the door being pulled aside and the door slid open just a little. A face wearing a cap of a Fourth Rank noble peered in and then bowed to the floor. “My ruler, my lady. I am Archivist Lesser Controller of the Right Nariyori. I have heard of your fate and found this time when your guards are absent to come speak to you. As I am an archivist, no one minds my being here. How may I serve you?”
“You are a bosatsu sent from Paradise, good Archivist Nariyori,” said Go-Shirakawa. “Tell me all that is happening. Is there fighting in the streets?”
“Not as yet, Majesty, but there are rumors Kiyomori is returning to Heian Kyō with a mighty force.”
“Ah. Excellent. And my son, the Emperor, where is he? What is he doing in all this?”
“Alas, it is a terrible, shameful matter, Majesty. Great Commander Nobuyori has tricked Nijō-sama with opium-laced wine and now keeps him confined in the Blackdoor Chamber of the Seiryōden. Nobuyori himself lives beyond the Comb Window in the Asagarei, where the Emperor should be living, wearing the red trousers and gold hatband of an Emperor himself.”
“I should never have left the throne.” Go-Shirakawa sighed. “And the Imperial Regalia, what of them? Where is the Sacred Mirror?”
“Where it always rests, Majesty. At Ise and in the Ummeiden.”
“And the sword and the jewel?”
“In the Night Hall of the Seiryōden, Majesty.”
“Where an Emperor sleeps.”
“Yes.”
“And where Nobuyori is sleeping now.”
“Very likely, Majesty.”
“Ah, well. At least he has not sold them.”
“Majesty, how unthinkable!”
“Not for Nobuyori, I suspect. Is there rumor of what is to become of us?”
“Not that I have heard, Majesty. Perhaps things will change when Governor Kiyomori arrives.”
“No doubt.”
“Is there any other service I may do for you, Majesty? I regret that my power is small, but I will do what I can.”
“For your loyalty, we thank you. Please return when there is more news. Your voice gives us hope.”
The archivist pressed his forehead to the floor again. “As soon as I can, Majesty. Highness.” The door slid shut, and his departing footsteps tapped away.
Go-Shirakawa smiled at his sister. “There can be no despair, while men such as he remain in the world.”
The White Swan
As was customary before a great battle, Kiyomori and his men sought a place where they might petition the assistance and goodwill of the gods before proceeding into Heian Kyō. Therefore, they stopped at the ancient and venerable Otori Shrine. Snow had fallen the night before, and it was piled heavily on the shrine’s elegantly sloping roofs and gables. Snow blanketed the iris gardens, renowned throughout the land for their summer beauty.
Kiyomori himself led the prayer, ringing the bell before the holy main shrine building, clapping twice and begging the aid of Yamato Takeru and Mioyanokami. Kiyomori thought it interesting that Mioyanokami was not only a god of bugei, the fighting arts, but also was a god of literature. We may pray not only to prove ourselves well in battle but that perhaps someone will someday write favorably of our deeds.
When he had finished, his son Shigemori said, “Father, should we not leave an offering here? Is it not said that the gods pay more attention when a sacrifice is made?”
“Very well, my son. I will let you select what our offering will be. Only do not take too long about it. We still have some distance to ride.”
“Thank you, Father.” Shigemori smiled and went back among his retainers to prepare his offering.
Kiyomori took a contemplative stroll through the grounds of the shrine. One of the priests had mentioned to him a legend in which the many varieties of trees on the shrine’s grounds had sprung up overnight at the shrine’s consecration. Kiyomori thought how his current army had grown, so swiftly, at his call for assistance. May this be a sign of divine favor, he thought, for my force is yet small and we face great danger.
Halfway around the shrine he turned and looked back at the main building. With the snow piled upon the caves and clumped around the protruding crossed beams that rose into the sky, it looked as though a great white swan, its wings outstretched, had settled in this place to rest before flying on.
Another legend mentioned by the shrine priest went that Yamato Takeru, son of Emperor Keiko and a great warrior of ages past, had turned into a white swan upon his death and that this spot was his last landing place upon Earth before he rose into the Heavens. Kiyomori recalled that Yamato Takeru was the first mortal to wield the Sacred Sword Kusanagi, having been given it by Susano-wo. And I might be the last mortal to touch the sword. He bowed to the shrine, proud that he might be part of so ancient a story, yet feeling some fear as well. What is my part in this legend? How will it end?
He saw Shigemori with his retainers approaching the main shrine again, leading a dapple gray horse. Kiyomori returned to them, and said, “Did you not tell me that is your favorite steed, my son?”
“Yes, Father,” Shigemori said, “this is Tobikage, and that is my best saddle on his back, the cedar one decorated with silver.”
“This is a lavish gift to present to the shrine, is it not?”
“Father, I know you have faced many battles, but I have not. I feel what we face upon our return to the capital may be the most important battle of our lives. The most important of the Taira clan itself. If the gods judge us by our resolve, is it not wise to give the most precious thing, to show we are prepared to make the greatest sacrifice to win our goal?”
“Perhaps, my son, perhaps. Do as you think best.” He watched Shigemori lead the horse to the priests’ compound. Kiyomori idly wondered whether Shigemori truly intended the gift as a sign of resolve, or whether he wanted his prized horse to remain at a place where it would be fussed over and taken good care of rather than be harmed in battle.
Does it matter what a man’s intentions are, Kiyomori reminded himself, so long as he does the right thing?
Kiyomori left an offering of his own—a poem written on stiff Michinoku paper and folded into the shape of a butterfly, the Taira crest. The poem was:
The caterpillar
Fully changed, prepares to fly home
Protect it,
Otori-no-kami.
Icy Streets
Very late that night, Kiyomori and his forces rode through the Rashō Mon, the southernmost gate into Heian Kyō. But no opposing force awaited them. As they rode down the broad Suzaku Ōji, the city appeared deserted. Only the pale glow of moonlight illuminated the fallen snow on the famous willows lining the avenue, and glittered on the ice lining the gutters. There was no sound other than the soft clop of their horses’ hooves.
“This is very strange,” Kiyomori murmured.
“Perhaps we are awaited at Rokuhara,” said Shigemori.
They rode eastward through the city, Kiyomori gripping the reins of his horse tightly, expecting any moment that warriors would suddenly burst forth from the alleyways in ambush. But there came no attack.
When they reached the Rokuhara Mansion, the guards at the gate shouted joyfully upon seeing Kiyomori, Shigemori, and the new allied warriors they had brought back with them. Though it was late at night, all the household awoke and came to greet them and thank them for their return.
“What were you thinking?” Tokiko rebuked Kiyomori when he finally embraced her in their bedchamber. “How could you leave us so unprotected? With you and Shigemori gone, and Motomori so sickly now, Munemori would have had to become our general and he is still so young!
“Wife, wife, I relied upon your wisdom and your magics to keep the capital at peace,” Kiyomori said, nuzzling her graying hair.
“Did you? Did you think my skills at court etiquette would keep Nobuyori at bay? My father may be the Dragon King, but when I was permitted into the mortal realm to be your wife, I gave up most of my magics.”
“I was jesting, wife. I thought Nobuyori was no more than a puffed-up nobleman, too impressed with himself to do anything requiring courage.”
“He fooled all of us,” agreed Tokiko. “But now you see why my father wishes the sword Kusanagi returned to him. Were such a man as Nobuyori to learn the power of the sword, and use it, such terrible things would happen. Terrible things.”
“Peace, wife, peace. I will see to it. Have I not promised?”
“Will you see to it soon?”
“Is there not the matter of a Taira grandson who must first ascend the throne? Would it not be best attended to then?”
“I fear that may be too late. There are monks who now say that mankind is entering the Last Days of the Law.”
“Monks are always saying such things in order to seem important.”
“I beg you listen to me. If you care for your land and your beautiful city Heian Kyō, you must take heed.”
Kiyomori sighed. “Very well, wife. I will think on what I may do.”
For fifteen days and nights thereafter, the Taira at Rokuhara awaited an attack from the Imperial guards. Likewise, in the Imperial Compound, the forces of Nobuyori awaited an attack from the Taira. Spies shuttled back and forth in the night carrying news and rumors. Horsemen of both clans, Taira and Minamoto, rode up and down the streets in the daytime, waiting for a sign or signal that battle was to begin. Although the New Year was approaching, no one made plans for festivities or observances; there was only talk of war.
Kiyomori had to admit to himself that his bold strategy had not worked … or had worked all too well. Nobuyori had simply proved the bolder. The Great Commander still had an overwhelming force at the Imperial Compound, led by the formidable Minomoto Yoshitomo. And now Nobuyori had possession of Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa as well the Emperor himself. “Why has he not yet attacked us?” Kiyomori would ask over and over as he walked the barricaded walls of Rokuhara. “Does he expect reinforcements? Does he plan to make a bargain with us?” No spy or warrior could give Kiyomori an answer. But Kiyomori did not allow the uneasy peace to make him idle. He used the time to conceive of a plan which, if it succeeded, might be the boldest move of all.
The Ladies in the Ox-Carriage
Young Emperor Nijō, seventeen years of age, awoke before dawn to the familiar sound of bustling servants. He let them ease him off of his sleeping dais and dress him in his vermilion robes and black hat. He waited patiently as they set out rice and vegetables for his breakfast, and listened as they cheerfully told him there was nothing of importance requiring his attention. With a sigh, Nijō prepared to spend the day much he had spent each day of the past several months, pretending he was drugged. The rice and vegetables were laced with opium, he knew from experience, and he was given only wine to drink.
Some days he was so discouraged, so disgusted with him
self, that he needed not pretend. He would eat the food he was given and allow himself to drift in sad oblivion. Sequestered as he was in the Blackdoor Chamber, guarded by servants who only pretended to do his bidding, there was little else to do but watch, and listen, and wait.
On this particular day he chose again to forgo the food, stirring it with his chopsticks and spilling some to make it seem as though he had eaten. He let the wine spill down between the floorboards. The hunger and thirst he would feel through the day would be adequate punishment for what he had allowed himself to become.
Truly, it is as the Buddha says, Nijō thought. A man’s desires are his downfall. I was a fool to let Nobuyori know the wishes that were in my heart. He gave me my wish, but oh the price he has extracted in return. May all the gods and bosatsu forgive me. I did not think I would be giving up my kingdom for a woman.
Emperor Nijō knew when the sun had risen, not by any light that penetrated his dim chamber, but by the changing of the guards outside his door. He wished again he had the strength to overcome them, to force them aside and see the sun’s light for himself. To be able to stride into the Great Hall of State and stand before the assembled Senior Council of Nobles. To be able to point at Nobuyori, and declare, “He is a traitor to the state! Behead him!”
But Nijō had grown up a pampered prince, knowing nothing of the fighting arts. And the men outside his door were Minomoto, hardened warriors and loyal to Nobuyori. The worst I could do is force them to harm or kill me. Someday, if this goes on, I may do just that. Though I am said to be descended from the gods, I am as powerless as a fish trapped in a fisherman’s bucket.
Nijō heard the guards talking outside his door, and he slumped onto the floor to place his ears closer to that wall. It was important to maintain appearances, for Nijō could never be certain when he was being observed and when he was not. In this manner, he had been able to learn some things about how matters stood. He learned of the death of Shinzei and the capture of the Middle Counselor’s sons. He learned that Kiyomori of the Taira had left Heian Kyō. He heard how Nobuyori now fashioned himself as an Emperor, and how frightened and disgusted the nobles who served him were.
