by Kara Dalkey
As he walked, Narichika gazed out at the gardens between the buildings, watching the gingko and maple leaves drift to the ground. The visions of a ruined Heian Kyō had not left him ever since the night he spent at Rokuhara. At first, he had been willing to believe that Go-Shirakawa’s premonitions matched his own, that the Taira would be the ones to bring the land to its doom. Now he was no longer certain. Now he suspected it no longer mattered which way the winds blew, which tree gave up its leaves first. Winter would come, and there would be no stopping it.
Scroll 3
Genpei
Arrows Shot into Palanquins
Shigemori’s horse stamped beneath him, uneasy at the growing roar beyond the palace wall. A scent of late-spring wisteria from the Imperial gardens drifted on the air. “It is curious,” Shigemori commented to the Taira warrior beside him, “how a man’s fate goes in circles, neh? Here it is sixteen years later and again I am at the Taikenmon.”
“Indeed, my lord,” replied the horseman, “but this time we face the enemy from the other side. This time it is we Taira who are within the Imperial palace, awaiting a rebellious foe. To my mind, this is a change for the better.”
Shigemori wondered. It had been nine years since his father, Kiyomori, had taken Buddhist vows and become a novice monk. And yet his father had since shown little interest in studying the laws and sutras, instead continuing to concentrate on governmental power. Kiyomori had, in fact, become even less tolerant of any who might challenge Taira supremacy, and showed his displeasure in ways that far outstripped the insult. Just a few months before, Shigemori had found himself having to apologize to the entourage of the Royal Regent because a band of young Taira warriors refused to give way to them on the street. After Shigemori’s apology, however, Kiyomori had sent a group of thugs to beat up the outriders of the Regent’s entourage, with the message “All must give way before the Taira.”
The reputation and honor of the Taira were slipping in the minds of the people; noble, merchant, and peasant alike. Everyone grumbled about Kiyomori’s high-handed ways. Shigemori did what he could to present a good example of fairness and courtliness as his mother had taught him. It had gained Shigemori much favor in the Imperial Court, but alas it had made the excesses of his father and fellow Taira only stand out the more in comparison.
Shigemori turned in his saddle to regard his men, the leather lacings of his laminate armor creaking. There were only two hundred warriors at this gate, but they were seasoned Taira horsemen for the most part, with a smattering of Fujiwara and Oe scions eager for a taste of battle and glory. Peace had not sat well on the youth of Heian Kyō. Shigemori was concerned. Glory would not be easily won in this situation.
“This business of fighting monks,” commented the horseman beside him, as if he had read Shigemori’s mind, “makes me uneasy.
Is it not said that to kill a monk increases one’s bad karma tenfold? And that a man will never see the Pure Land if he takes the life of a holy man?”
“So it is said,” agreed Shigemori. “But these monks are bringing the battle to us. Despite their peaceful vows, they have marched down from Mount Hiei, bringing bow and naginata to harass the Emperor. For a monk to break his vows and kill must surely bring him misfortune a thousandfold greater. Our duty is clear.”
“I understand, my lord. But I have heard the monks have reason for complaint.”
That was another thing that needled Shigemori. It should not have become an Imperial matter. Former Emperor Go-Shirakawa had given a joint governorship to the sons of his strange monk advisor Saikō. Those sons had misused, damaged, and destroyed property of the temples in their province, temples related to Enryakuji on Mount Hiei. These Hiei monks should be bringing their complaint to ToSanjō Palace, to the attention of Go-Shirakawa. After all, the Emperor Takakura himself is still only a boy of fourteen.
The sound from the approaching army of monks swelled louder, and now Shigemori could discern distinct temple songs and chanting of the Thousand-Armed Sutra. It was frustrating not to be able to see the movement of the enemy because of the high palace wall. Shigemori called up to the nearest sentry standing atop the wall. “You, can you see them? How near are they?”
The sentry turned and shouted back, “Lord General, the monks are passing to the north of us on Ichijō Avenue.”
“Hmm.” Shigemori turned to the warrior beside him. “Who is guarding the northern gates of the palace?”
“Minomoto Yorimasa, my lord. With only three hundred men for all three gates.”
“Ah. Perhaps the monks have heard that quarter was lightly defended.” It had been the honorable thing for Takakura to do, to invite what pitiful remnants of the Minomoto that remained in Heian Kyō to participate in the defense of the Emperor. Still, Shigemori was nagged by the worry that the Minomoto might make a strong show of bugei. Esteem for the Taira had fallen so low, that the Minomoto could easily gain favor. And Shigemori knew, no matter how strong the Taira were upon the sea, for knowledge of the horse and bow no clan could surpass the Minomoto.
“Should we send Yorimasa assistance, my lord?”
Shigemori considered this a moment. “No. Yorimasa would be offended. He would think we Taira were insulting his courage and skill. Let us send one observer to see how matters go. If the observer returns with news that the monks have overpowered Yorimasa’s forces, then we will go and give aid.”
A rider was dispatched to the north side of the Imperial Compound. Shigemori and his men heard the singing of the monks become softer in the distance, then silent. Long minutes passed, filled only with the snorting of horses and the clacking of armor. Then they heard a distant cheer and the singing of the monks began again, approaching them this time.
“My lord!” called the sentry from the wall. “They are coming this way!”
The rider sent to observe at the northern gates returned, cantering his horse up to Shigemori. He was badly trying to conceal a bemused grin.
“What is it?” demanded Shigemori.
“That Yorimasa is a clever fellow,” replied the rider, “you must give him that. He told the monks that no one would respect their petition if they simply overpowered his small force. He said their demands would be taken all the more seriously if they were victorious over a much larger force.”
“Such as ours?”
“Indeed. And they believed him. So the monks are headed here to challenge us.”
Shigemori sighed. “Clever indeed. The Amida protect me from such men.” He shouted up at the sentry, “What weapons have they?”
“Rude spears and naginata, my lord. Swords, of course, and some shovels and farming tools. No shields. I expect they plan to hide behind their holy palanquins.”
“Good,” Shigemori murmured. “No bows. With luck we need not even open the gates to give battle.” He called out loudly to his men, “Dismount! We will not need our horses. To the wall, everyone! Shoulder to shoulder, as many as can fit. We will give the monks a rain of arrows in answer to the thunder of their voices!” Shigemori himself dismounted and scaled one of the wooden ladders up to the top of the high stone wall.
From there, Shigemori could see the tide of monks flowing onto Omiya Avenue, bearing their painted and gilded palanquins like flotsam on a river after a flood. Sunlight winked off the blades of naginata, and the shaved heads of the swelling throng of chanting, singing monks. They assembled on the street, facing the Taikenmon, so many in number that they spilled onto side streets. From his perch on the wall, Shigemori could not see a single paving stone, so thick was the crowd below.
Shigemori unslung his bow from his back and pulled a blunt humming arrow from his quiver. He sent word down through the ranks that his men should do the same. “But do not fire until I give the word.” The rippling movement of bows along the wall reminded Shigemori of a war banner waving in a brisk breeze.
Shigemori waited until the monks below had finished their temple song. Then he called out, “Who is it who comes to disturb the
Imperial harmony so?”
A cacophony of voices replied:
“We bring a grievance to His Majesty!”
“We seek justice!”
“Shame upon the council and His Majesty!”
“The bosatsu are angry!”
Shigemori shouted back, “Return to your temples! This is unseemly behavior for holy men! You should be praying for peace, not bringing war!” But he knew he could not be heard over their clamor.
With a sigh, Shigemori raised his arm to signal to the archers along the wall. When he had their attention, he dropped his arm in a chopping motion. “Hajime!”
A wave of blunt humming arrows arced into the mass of men, like a curl of surf pounding onto a shore. The eerie drone of the arrows blended into the cries of wounded monks, for though blunt, the arrows could still do great damage when striking flesh. Still, though many monks went down, they did not disperse. A few light spears and arrows rose out of the crowd of monks to clatter against the stone wall or lodge harmlessly in the armor of the Taira archers.
“Battle arrows!” Shigemori called out to his men. Many scores of arms reached back to their quivers to pull out the sharp, steel-headed arrows. He hoped the monks below would see this and decide to leave. But either their anger or their fervor or a wish not to seem cowards held them there, pressed against the palace wall, chanting tirades at the Emperor.
Shigemori again raised his arm, gazing down at the monks with a mixture of admiration and regret….
Holy One, I bring news, as you asked,” said the boy with bowl-cut hair as he knelt before the ancient advisor-monk Saikō.
“Tell us your news,” said Saiko in contented anticipation.
“The Enryakuji monks have reached the Imperial palace, and they intend to give battle,” said the messenger.
“Very good. You have done well,” said Saikō, giving the boy a tiny satchel containing a few flakes of gold. “Go and observe more so that we may learn how the battle progresses.”
“Hai, Holy One.” The boy bowed and ran out the shōji and down the hill from the little hunting lodge.
Saikō stood, not minding the ache of his bones as much as usual, and went to join Middle Counselor Narichika, who was standing on the veranda. From there, one had a good view of Heian Kyō in the valley below. But although the capital was just a few li away, the only visible indication of battle was a haze of dust hanging over the northern section of the city.
“It has begun,” Saikō said.
“I still do not understand,” Narichika grumbled. “Why did you have to bring the Enryakuji monks into this? They are untrustworthy and unpredictable.”
“A still pond has no power to offer. Swirling, chaotic waters, however, can be channeled in useful directions.”
“I hope your channel is deep and sure,” said Narichika. “I fear a flood might burst its banks.”
Saikō smiled. Narichika had never been comfortable around him, which suited Saikō quite well. “Do not fear, Middle Counselor. Our cause is guided by greater powers.”
“So it must be. I still do not know how you managed to divert the monks’ anger against the Emperor instead of the In. It was your son who did the damage in Kaga Province and Go-Shirakawa who appointed him.”
Saikō merely blinked, and said, “Surely the bosatsu smile upon me. But I do not understand your dissatisfaction, Middle Counselor. Did you not come to me when you were being passed over for promotion to Major Captain because the post was to be given instead to the hapless Taira Munemori? Did I not arrange for a hundred monks at Yawata to chant the Great Wisdom Sutra for seven days on your behalf?”
“And on the third day,” Narichika argued, “three white doves appeared at the shrine and pecked each other to death. It was such a disturbing omen from Hachiman that the monks had to stop.”
Saikō idly waved a hand. “Who can say what the omen meant? Perhaps it means there will be trouble within the Minomoto clan. Perhaps it merely indicated that war is to come, which we know already and are preparing for. And did I not also arrange for an ascetic at the Kamo Shrine to perform the Dagini ritual for a hundred days on your behalf?”
“He performed it in a hollow cryptomeria tree. Which was struck by lightning. The other priests found him and beat him and drove him out of the shrine.”
“Well, these things happen,” said Saikō.
“I begin to fear, Holy One,” said Narichika, his voice tightly controlled, “that the gods do not look with favor upon our endeavor. All I hoped to do, to bring down the Taira before the visions that I saw at Rokuhara come to pass, now begins to seem a hopeless dream.”
“Do not lose heart, Middle Counselor,” Saikō said soothingly. “Believe me, all is progressing as it should.”
“For all our sakes,” said Narichika, glaring at him with anger and fear, “I hope you are right.” Narichika glanced once more at the city, then stalked away to another wing of the villa.
Saikō retired to a small, dark antechamber and took a stick of incense from his sleeve. He lit it in the coals of a small bronze brazier and let the aromatic stick smolder. A compact cloud of smoke gathered above the brazier. Saikō chanted a few words and a face appeared in the smoke: hollow-cheeked, sunken-eyed. Saikō bowed. “Dark Majesty, it has begun.”
Shigemori dropped his arm again, barking “Hajime!” once more. Hundreds of battle arrows were loosed in a deadly rain from atop the palace wall. Shigemori’s men were excellent archers, although at this range it hardly mattered. The monks were packed in so tightly that every arrow found a target. A forest of arrows sprouted in an instant from eyes, throats, shoulders, arms, chests. Blood spouted and flowed onto the paving stones. The chanting was replaced with screams of agony and horror. Many monks slumped to the ground, dead or wounded, their companions trying to aid them or give them merciful killing blows.
Shigemori took no satisfaction from this. It was like hunting wildfowl that had already been penned in a crate. He raised his arm again, and again his men took arrows from their quivers and nocked them.
This time the monks took notice and ran, screaming, into the side streets. Many were trampled in the widespread panic. Some tried to carry their wounded fellows with them, but many monks were left behind to die.
“Open the gates!” Shigemori commanded. “Bring in the wounded and the dead. The Imperial healers will see to those who can be helped and perhaps the Guard will wish to question them.”
After a halfhearted cheer of victory, the archers left the wall and went to the Taikenmon. Shigemori gazed over the bodies in the street. Many of them appeared to be scholar-monks, pale of skin, unmuscled, and thin. He felt sick at the waste of wisdom and knowledge.
Shigemori noted that even the sacred shrine palanquins had been left behind, so desperate had the flight of monks been. And then he noted something very disturbing. There were a few arrows sticking out of the palanquins. To attack a sacred palanquin was worse than insult to the shrine to which it belonged. It was as though one had attacked the kami or bosatsu itself. His men were expert marksmen, and at this close range there was no excuse. Fortunately, every warrior of importance always marked his arrows with his name and a particular pattern of fletching—it made for more truth in claiming the honor of one’s kills. In this situation, it would make finding the perpetrators of this shame all the easier.
Another man had noticed the violated palanquins and came running up to Shigemori. “My lord, Mount Hiei will be enraged. What shall we do?”
Shigemori replied, “We are not savages. No matter the cost, we must do what is right and follow form and custom. Therefore, when those arrows are removed, see that they are brought to me. Whoever fired them into the palanquins must be punished.”
“It will be done, my lord.”
Clouded Waters
How could he have allowed such a thing!” Kiyomori roared. “Four Taira imprisoned, not to mention a Fujiwara and an Oe, all because their arrows found an unsuitable target. Is Shigemori trying to bring sha
me upon our clan?”
“He is trying to do the honorable thing,” said Tokiko calmly, as she gathered azaleas at the ornamental pond’s edge, “as he has been taught. Surely this can only be seen as a noble act.”
“I would wish Shigemori would act more the warrior than the nobleman. Heian Kyō has enough effetes in black robes. What are you gathering flowers for? Don’t you have maidservants to do that?”
“They are for the Buddha’s birthday observance,” said Tokiko, “and it is an act of worship to gather them oneself. Have you forgotten?” There was a trace of irony in her voice.
Irritated, Kiyomori stood. “I have more important things to do. I don’t know why I talk to you anymore. You have renounced the world of your father and become a novice nun and yet you still chide me. Will you never give me peace, woman?” He strode off through the garden, peach blossoms drifting in his wake.
Tokiko raised the azaleas to her nose and inhaled their scent as she watched him go. It had been ironic … soon after Kiyomori took his vows it was expected that Tokiko would do likewise. A woman who remained “in the world” after her husband retires to monkhood was considered immoral. Therefore, Tokiko was obliged to learn the laws and the sutras, have her hair cut to shoulder length, and wear the plain robes of a novice nun. Tokiko knew Kiyomori had not intended to punish her this way—it simply hadn’t occurred to him that she was affected by his actions.
At first, Tokiko had feared that her father the Dragon King would be outraged, but if he was, she did not know it. The pond denizens that she had used so often for sending and receiving messages no longer came to her call. The waters were clouded, muddied, and offered no clear reflection.
Instead, Tokiko had come more and more to rely upon her knowledge of the mortal world, the gossip her handmaidens brought her, what little news of the political arena her sons would share with her. When she went to the temples to give offerings and prayer, she would surreptiously try to listen to the monks and learn their concerns. It was not so difficult for a well-connected woman to get a picture of the world around her, even from behind kichō curtains. What was difficult was doing anything with the knowledge.
