by Kara Dalkey
But that is where I want to be, thought Ushiwaka.
“You would be better served,” the abbot said, “to study the sutras, and prepare for the World to Come than to poke about in the woods with a toy sword.”
“But Holy One,” Ushiwaka protested, “if things are going to become bad, shouldn’t we try to change it or stop it? Does mappo have to come? The Buddha would not lead us into bad times, would he, if we show ourselves worthy and brave?”
“Ah.” A sad smile curled the edge of Tōkōbō’s mouth. “That is the illusion of jiriki, that one can make the world better if one only strives hard enough. An ant may move a stone, my son, but it cannot move the man who treads upon it. Ants may build small mountains, but nonetheless the rain will wash them away. This world brings only sorrow, and to strive against it is only to waste one’s spirit in useless endeavor. You have a great spirit, Ushiwaka. Learn the sutras and use them as a guide to act wisely. Live in peace, though the world falls around you, and await the better world to come.”
“I … I will think on all you say, Holy One. Do you need me for anything else? May I go?”
Tōkōbō sighed and then nodded. “You may.”
Ushiwaka hurried back toward his room. But he could feel the sad gaze of the abbot upon his back as he left.
A Mist in the Forest
That same year, Ushiwaka’s half brother, Minomoto Yoritomo, turned twenty-two years of age at the monastery to which he had been exiled, in the province of Izu. Yoritomo had proven to be a calm, studious young man through the eight years of his exile, giving no one any cause for concern. He spent the majority of his days studying the Buddhist scriptures and designing a great stupa to be dedicated to the memory of his fallen father. Although some of the monks thought Yoritomo too aloof, this was seen by others as a sign that Yoritomo truly intended to retreat from the world, someday to take vows and have nothing more to do with the troubles in Heian Kyō.
Now and then, letters would arrive from the hereditary vassals of the Minomoto living in the Kantō. They would inquire as to his health and, subtly or directly, remind Yoritomo that he was the Ason. The Minomoto had not chosen a new clan chief since the death of Yoshitomo, fearing the Taira might make the one chosen a target for their suspicion and vengeance. But should the time come when the Minomoto felt strong enough, Yoritomo would be expected to assume the clan leadership.
Disturbing letters came from Yorimasa, a Minomoto spy in Rokuhara, describing the latest depredations of the overweening Taira—how they were demanding all the best Imperial posts, how they stifled all opposition with violence, how no man’s daughter was safe if a Taira desired her.
All these messages Yoritomo read and put away without reply and he never spoke of them with anyone.
Very early in the morning on the day after he turned twenty-two, Yoritomo took a walk along a forested mountain ridge above the monastery. It was one of his favorite walks, giving him a view of both Sagami Bay to the east and the perfection that was Mount Fuji to the north. As he was walking, meditating upon the Sutra of Filial Piety, he noticed a mist rising out of a murky forest pond. The mist drifted over to the path before him and took on a more discernible shape—the shape of a man with sunken cheeks and hollowed eyes and a scarf wrapped about his head. The apparition had no feet.
Yoritomo stopped and gestured in mudras of warding—left hand held up in the Fudō-In with smallest and index fingers extended as horns, right hand in the Gōma-In pointing toward the ground to signify the Buddha’s subjugation of the demons. He began to chant the first lines of the Lotus Sutra.
“That is not necessary!” said the apparition, writhing as if in pain. “I do not come to harm you, o Beloved of Hachiman.”
“What are you?” demanded Yoritomo.
“I come as a friend! A counselor. A very distant relative, in fact.”
“Who are you?” Yoritomo asked. “You are like no Minomoto I have heard of.”
“I was once Emperor of all this land. But I was rudely supplanted. Now, in afterlife, I have chosen to serve those who have been unjustly wronged by ambitious noblemen.”
“The Shin-In!” Yoritomo said, and again he did the mudras of warding, for he had heard of the Emperor who had turned himself into a demon.
“Please, cease!” cried the Shin-In, turning his face away. “I have come to give you aid.”
“I have no need of your aid. People say you were the one who set Nobuyori to evil and led my father to destruction.”
“No, it was not me. Should I be blamed if Nobuyori’s ambitions overwhelmed all common sense? Your father served bravely and blamelessly, and for his loyalty suffered at the hands of the Taira.”
Yoritomo found he could not argue.
“But I wonder,” the apparition went on, “why you while away your time here, when Hachiman himself has said you have a great destiny.”
Yoritomo stared at the ground and did not answer.
“The unwise Kiyomori,” the Shin-In continued, “has let some of your brothers live as well. One or two of them are not as reluctant as you to do their filial duty. If you remain this detached, someday it will be one of them who receives the glories of the Minomoto yet to come, and you will be a forgotten notation in the scrolls of history.”
Yoritomo sighed deeply, “The luck of the Seiwa Minomoto has run out. All those who hope to conquer the fortunate Taira hope in vain. Why should I lead the sad remnants of my clan to utter destruction? During the Heiji, my father was prevented from attacking Rokuhara so that the skills and knowlege of the bow and arrow, which is the glory of our clan, should not be lost. But my father died anyway, through treachery. Now you suggest that I risk the future of my clan again, when there is even less hope. You ask too much.”
The apparition gasped. “Are you suggesting that your clan kami, Hachiman, lied to you?”
Yoritomo swallowed hard and again could not speak.
“O Unfaithful Genji,” the Shin-In chided him, “what a terrible thing to reject the protection of a kami. I know of another to whom such behavior will prove disastrous. Such bad fortune it brings. Do you truly wish to endanger yourself and your clan by denying your destiny?”
“I am therefore caught between two impossible choices,” said Yoritomo.
“Nonsense,” said the Shin-In. “The wise man does not try to walk upstream. The superior man guides the stream flow to where he wills, and then rides it.”
Yoritomo balled his fists. “I will think on all you have said. Now begone.”
“Do not dismiss me so hastily, Ason of the Minomoto. I can give you much assistance.” The apparition gestured, and twelve sticks of peeled and twisted hemp appeared at Yoritomo’s feet. “Should you wish to summon me, burn one of these in the dark of night, and I will come to you.”
Hesitantly, Yoritomo picked up the sticks and put them into his sleeve. “I pray these will not ever be necessary.”
“Oh, they will,” said the Shin-In. “Trust me, they will.”
The apparition smiled a terrible, wicked smile, then vanished.
Yoritomo hurried back to the monastery and the cleansing sound of the chanting monks and the booming of the temple bells.
Water Writing
Weeks passed after Kiyomori returned to Rokuhara from Itsukushima. His return trip by sea had been smooth and untroubled, and there had been no calamities at home. Tokiko chose to ignore him and demanded no conferences, which Kiyomori viewed as a blessing. Nothing untoward occurred as spring turned to summer and summer faded toward autumn. Kiyomori began to wonder whether the Dragon King had relented and continued to extend his protection. Or, perhaps, whether his protection had never been necessary at all.
But on the Twentieth Day of Poem-Composing Month, as the Lord Chancellor was taking off his black robes and preparing for sleep, a wave of dizziness overcame him. He grasped at a screen to balance himself and knocked it over, narrowly missing a brazier that would have set it ablaze. His strength flowed out of him until, unable to st
and, Kiyomori crumpled to the floor. The very air around him seemed to grow warmer and warmer as if aflame with invisible fire. Yet he trembled and shuddered as if in the chill of a winter storm.
Kiyomori had never been seriously ill in all his fifty years, and he was terrified. Is this Ryujin’s vengeance? Or can the spirits who bring disease strike me now because I lack a kami’s protection? He called for his servants. “Send word to the Buddhist temples,” he ordered them. “Bring priests and monks to pray for me, for I do not know if I will last the night!”
Frightened, the servants ran off to do his bidding, and within the hour they returned with monks from all the nearby temples. The monks tried to reassure Kiyomori. “We have seen this ailment often this season. Many who have it recover within a few days, though for a man of your age it may take longer.” Nonetheless, at his urging, they sat in the next room rocking and chanting from the sutras, as Kiyomori lay on his sleeping platform and suffered miserably.
Lord Kiyomori had never felt so weak, so frightened. For a warrior, used to leading battles and defeating all enemies, it was humiliating. To have achieved the rank of Chancellor, to be so close to having a Taira Emperor on the throne, and still to be struck down was infuriating. Truly Fate was no respecter of privilege. As he shivered and burned beneath his bedclothes, Kiyomori began to envy the monks who chanted in the next room. They lived their simple lives with no expectations, no hunger for advancement, no dreams of glory. Therefore, they could suffer no humiliation, no defeat. Kiyomori began to see there was a kind of power in this, to be beyond hurt and despair.
As the hours passed, Kiyomori drifted in and out of fever dreams. He no longer knew whether he remained in the mortal realm or whether he had already fallen into one of the 168 Hells. He did not know whether Lord Emma-O, judge of the dead, had already sentenced him to torment. If the teachings of the temples are true, Kiyomori thought during one of his lucid moments, then I am surely deserving of punishment. All the men I have killed, the scheming I have done. Would Lord Emma-O care that I have done these things for the sake of my sons and my clan?
Certain that his luck had run out and his days were ending, Kiyomori wept in self-pity and despair.
Now and then, faces appeared, hovering above him. Sometimes it was Shigemori, or Munemori, or other sons, concern in their eyes. Sometimes it was even Tokiko. They asked how he fared and what they might bring him. More terrifying were the faces of Minomoto warriors whom he had beheaded. These asked him whether he was ready to join them in the realms of the dead.
Kiyomori did not know what time of day it was when he awoke suddenly to the boom of thunder. He was alone in his chamber, and there was no sound of chanting priests nearby. Kiyomori tried to move or call out, but he could not. The paper paneling of the nearest shōji was lit with a pale light, but he did not know if it was morning sun or evening moon or ghostly light of another sort.
Rain began to patter against the shōji. As the water dripped down the paper panels, some dirt or stain traveled with it, creating a mark like a slow brushstroke. As Kiyomori watched in horror, the dripping water beads wrote characters, words, on the shōji, to make this message:
Proud Taira
Like the Minomoto, you have thrown away
Your precious armor.
You leave yourself
Defenseless!
Lightning flashed beyond the shōji and thunder rolled through the room as if the world were being torn apart. Kiyomori remembered the words of Yoshihira before he was executed—that he would return as a thunder demon to strike the Taira down. Kiyomori shut his eyes in terror and felt the room spin about him. Is this the beginning of my end? He wondered. Am I to be sucked down into the netherworld now, as a ship is pulled into the maelstroms of the sea, never to be seen again? Darkness overtook him, and he faded into unconciousness.
Kiyomori was amazed, therefore, when he awoke again. He still lay upon his sleeping pallet, drenched in sweat. The air was heavy with incense and the sound of monks chanting sutras rolled over him soothingly. He glanced over at the shōji, but saw no words there, merely damp paper.
I have been spared, Kiyomori mused in wonder. How can this be? Slowly he sat upright. The room spun a little, but he did not fall. He noticed he was hungry. There was a bowl of rice beside him, and he ate some, chewing thoughtfully. Perhaps it is the praying of the monks that has saved me. Perhaps, just as the sutras carved on my island off Fukuhara spared the stones from Ryujin’s wrath, the spoken words of the sutras have protected me from vengeful spirits. Perhaps, if I cannot have the protection of the Dragon King, I must seek the protection of the Buddha.
Kiyomori summoned the monks to him. They were quite surprised and pleased to see him sitting up, awake and aware. “I believe I owe my returned health to your prayers,” he told them. “I will see that bountiful gifts of rice and silk and horses are sent to your temples. You have all been an inspiration to me. I now find that I wish to take the tonsure and become a monk. Please send for your wisest teacher to instruct me.”
The monks were gratified, but not altogether surprised, for it was not unknown for a man who had faced death suddenly to seek the divine. So notice was sent that a teacher was sought by the great Chancellor and because of Kiyomori’s high rank, the Tendai abbot, Major Archbishop Meiun himself, came down from Mount Hiei to see to Kiyomori’s religious instruction. Kiyomori’s head was shaved and he was given the plain robes of a monk to wear, and he was given the monk name of Jokai. It was announced that Kiyomori had “left the world” and therefore the leadership of the Taira clan was officially given to his son Shigemori, although how much actual power Shigemori would be allowed to wield was uncertain.
Ryujin would not dare to harm me now, Kiyomori thought as he wrote out another sutra and studied another law of the Blessed Amida. No one in the capital will dare speak slander of a holy man. Ha! If all it takes to gain respect and heavenly protection is to lose one’s hair and fancy robes, then it is a small price to pay.
Mirror Image
Kiyomori has become a monk?” laughed Retired Emperor Go-Shirakawa when his advisor Saikō gave him the news. “Dare I believe this? Does anyone believe he is serious?”
The wizened Saikō shrugged. “A frightened man will often do strange things, Majesty. There are those who say Lord Kiyomori was much unsettled by his illness.”
Go-Shirakawa rubbed his chin. “No. No I cannot see Kiyomori unsettled by a mere disease. No, there is some scheming in this, I am sure. I am not certain that I believe he was even sick. Kiyomori knows that his reputation has suffered as he has become more arrogant. Perhaps all of this, his convalescence and his conversion, was a ploy to gain sympathy.”
“Majesty,” interjected Narichika, his other closest advisor, “it can be dangerous to see plots where none exist. It can make a man look foolish and fearful.”
Go-Shirakawa scowled at him. “It is more foolish to assume all is well when there is treachery afoot. I have known Kiyomori most of my life. He has never been seriously ill. He has never been religious. He gives lip service to his clan kami and builds a great shrine at Itsukushima to impress everyone with his wealth. He is not a man to suddenly choose to become a monk, unless there is some advantage in it.”
Narichika looked as though he were swallowing his tongue to remain silent. At last he said, “Your Majesty knows best, of course.”
“Yes, I do,” growled Go-Shirakawa. “It was perhaps foolish of me to allow the Taira so much power, but having done so I must now watch them with the utmost caution. Ever since that night I stayed at Rokuhara, I have become convinced that Kiyomori will turn out to be another Nobuyori, who will use his authority only to sate his greedy desires. Therefore, is it not best to be suspicious?”
“Naturally, Majesty”, said Saikō, darting a knowing glance at Narichika. “This is surely the wisest course.”
Desperately, Narichika tried again. “Majesty, already the Senior Council of Nobles is having difficulty accomplishing anything.
The Taira do not cooperate with the Fujiwara, and those nobles loyal to you do not cooperate with either clan. Everyone is vying for the best posts for themselves and their supporters. Nothing practical is getting done! There are rumors that the Minomoto are trying to organize themselves in the East, and who can say with whom they will ally themselves when they are ready?”
“So you see!” said Go-Shirakawa. “Times are treacherous indeed. I must do all I can to maintain order, and keep the Taira from bringing us to ruin.” He turned to Saikō. “So, Kiyomori thinks to make himself more respectable by taking the tonsure, does he? Then I shall do the same. Send word to the Tendai Abbot Meiun to come to ToSanjō Palace to instruct me as well. Kiyomori must not be allowed to become more respectable than I.”
Saikō bowed low, “It shall be as you wish, Majesty. I will send word at once.” The little monk stood and quickly left, favoring Narichika with one last smug smile.
Go-Shirakawa picked up a round bronze mirror that had been left lying about by one of the ladies-in-waiting. He held it before his face, and asked, “Do you think a shaved head will suit me, Narichika?”
Sadly, Narichika replied, “It will no doubt suit you as well as it suits Lord Kiyomori, Majesty, for I expect you will be as devout as he.”
Go-Shirakawa set down the mirror. “Don’t be tiresome, Narichika. I was merely wondering if it would set off my features. My ladies tell my my graying hair makes me look older and wiser. I would hate to lose the gravity of a mature appearance if the tonsure robs me of my years.”
“I am sure that your people will judge your wisdom, Majesty, by what you have accomplished for Nihon, not your appearance,” Narichika said, standing and bowing. He excused himself from the former Imperial Presence and walked out to a long corridor-bridge that connected the Receiving Chambers of ToSanjō Palace with the guest quarters where he was staying.
