The five of them paraded about the gardens, searching for a place at once beautiful enough for a wedding and unlittered by the slain. Tomoe and Yoshinake decided on a spot atop a small knoll, and sat there upon their knees, facing one another. Of the two, the man was most beautiful, dressed as he was in long white kimono with the yellow bird embroidered on the back. The woman was more dour in dark hakama and the back of her short kimono cut by a ninja’s weapon during the late encounters.
Prince Tahara set the tray between the couple. He poured saké into each cup, then moved unobtrusively away to sit with Hidemi Hirota. Hidemi had found a comfortable spot near the base of the knoll to one side. He sat there hitting on his knees excitedly, as though he were a child. Bonze Shindo had put his sword aside and regained his staff, rattling its shaku top to frighten away any spirits which might wish the couple ill. Then he placed the staff at his side on the ground. He had already tied a pill-box hat upon his head; and from a travel pouch he’d been keeping in the house, he took a patchwork stole and draped it around his shoulders. He looked holy and officious.
In front of him, a bit higher than he was, the bride and groom waited patiently. To them he said, “A buddhist ceremony is complex and cannot be impromptu; but we of the yamahoshi do not malign the Shinto customs which are raw and more direct. Therefore I have in mind a wedding chant which is popular in a northern province, but which I admit is most often sung for peasants.”
“We are not too proud,” said Yoshinake.
“I am personally more fond of Shinto,” said Tomoe.
“Nothing fancy is needed,” Yoshinake added. “Marry us now.”
“Very well,” said Shindo. He swelled himself up into a little mountain and recited the words in an old, poetic language—slowly, at the top of his lungs, and with guttural intonation:
“Infinitely greater than
the billion myriads of deities!
Is the sipping of your vows!”
He stopped, bowed to them once, and continued shouting:
“These nuptial cups
Incite the solemn grandeur
of unbounded love!
They keep you enthusiastic
in human service! They
keep you happy, sober and divine!”
He bowed a second time. A pair of butterflies, one light and one dark, performed an aerial dance between the pair upon the knoll. The monk finished his speech more loudly than before, if that were possible, with a flourish of his sleeve and arm:
“Drink now
the sincerity of your eyes
reflected in the wine!”
The third time he bowed, he did not look up until the couple before him performed their part. Tomoe and Yoshinake took up their cups and held them steadily before their faces, so that each could see the other’s eyes reflected in the sake. Tomoe’s heart skipped a beat when a kaji leaf drifted into her cup. There were no kaji trees nearby, from which it might have fallen. It was the same plant Tsuki Izutsu, as Naruka, had used to tell fortunes.
Her heart skipped again when she saw Yoshinake’s eyes reflected in the cup, red as the stars in Naruka’s fortune-telling saucer. But Tomoe did not shake about these omens.
She held the cup without allowing the slightest ripple, and her eyes were steady as she drank.
She and Yoshinake sipped three times; three times more; and a final three times. Then the saké cups were empty but for a kaji leaf in one.
They set the cups down on the tray between their knees, then turned to face the small audience. Yoshinake said,
“We are happy!” and Tomoe,
“Thank you very much.”
Yoshinake bowed. The bonze rose from his own bowing posture at that time, and saw how Tomoe Gozen was lowering her head, but not so low as the warrior-in-white.
“The three clappings!” said Hidemi Hirota excitedly, tears of gladness in his eyes. He, the prince, and the bonze raised their hands outward as Hidemi shouted, “Yo!” and they clapped in three sets of three, plus a single additional clap for exclamation; then all three men said with one voice: “Congratulations!”
The mood of these five was incongruously happy and playful in the corpse-strewn gardens. Even Tomoe did not seem upset now that it was done. The white and brown butterfly-couple followed the newlyweds. The morning sun was warm and the air was pleasant. Tomoe went to each of her three friends in turn, thanking them for their kind attendance; and she thanked the bonze in particular for his tremendous recitation. She told each one, “I have made a good decision,” without a single qualification or noticeable qualm. Yoshinake puffed up with his own good feeling. But all this happy feeling was short-lived, for a stranger stood in the entrance of the garden.
The man was a magistrate. He wore a flat, metal hat and carried a pronged jitte, badge of his authority. Tomoe remembered having met him briefly when first arriving in Isso.
The entry of the magistrate brought instantaneous silence to the cheerful group. They watched his disapproving vision pass over the gardens, spying a corpse here and another there and two more somewhere else. His gaze stopped finally on the body of Lord Matsu Emura whom Tomoe had killed. Emura lay among small evergreens off the end of the mansion’s porch. Doubtlessly Emura had lived a respectable life for whatever most people saw; and even a bad lord could not be slain with impunity unless by strict procedure and honest reason. Those men without rank and especially those in ninja garb incited small concern; but the death of Emura meant the magistrate could by no means withdraw his attention from the scene.
Hidemi Hirota was the least flustered. He scurried up to the magistrate, smiling ingratiatingly, and said, “As you can see, sir, the five of us have completed an important mission, in accordance with the laws of kataki or vengeance-taking. You will see it was legally done.”
The magistrate replied harshly, “You are someone’s vassal? By whose authority is this vengeance done?”
Hidemi was uncertain how to answer. He could not say it was by his own lord’s authority; and he did not know if a ghost’s commission would qualify. Prince Tahara approached and intervened. He bowed from the waist and introduced himself with precise formality. Because of his lineage and rank, there could be no further question about there being someone of high enough station overseeing the revenge.
Prince Shuzo Tahara explained, “These forty-seven men laying dead in the house and in the gardens, besides three others who you may already have learned were killed yesterday, were the slayers of the Imperial Swordsmith Okio and of his entire family. It was necessary to fight them because of their crime. I trust you will think well of us for acting appropriately.”
“Just so,” said the magistrate. Indeed, if everything was as explained, the laws of kataki not only permitted, but required the deed performed. Yet the magistrate was not entirely convinced. He asked, “Where are the bodies of the family you say were murdered?”
Bonze Shindo stepped forward, smiling as had Hidemi, mostly to be disarming. “I took them secretly to a nearby temple yesterday. Their unfortunate deaths will be reported to you later today, as per my instructions.”
“You are a mountain priest,” said the magistrate, seeming vaguely annoyed that strangers from outside his district appeared to be the only ones present. “Who else was involved in the vengeance-taking?”
“A famous warrior!” said Hidemi Hirota, indicating Tomoe. “She is Tomoe Gozen of Heida. This other fellow with his back to us is a ronin named Ich ’yama, who is recently married to Tomoe.”
“I will make a full report,” said the magistrate. “I am sure there will be no problem.”
That would have been the end to it, except for Yoshinake, who had still not turned around. With his back turned rudely to the others, he growled a query to the magistrate:
“Who told you to come here.”
The others looked at him harshly, for Yoshinake’s tone could cause unnecessary trouble. But he did not face them and did not see their disapproval, not that he was likely to be co
ncerned if he had noticed. The magistrate’s reply was equally abrupt:
“My informer’s identify is not your business!” He pointed his pronged jitte at the back of the rude man and said, “You dress nicely for a masterless samurai! Let me see your face so that I can judge if you are a criminal!”
Yoshinake did not turn around.
“Be polite, Ich ’yama,” said Hidemi. The magistrate added harshly,
“Face me and bow, or I will arrest you immediately!
Yoshinake turned slowly. As he did, the magistrate backed away, lowered his jitte, and looked surprised. He fell to his knees at once and said, “I was informed correctly!” He lowered his head and begged, “Forgive my bothersome interrogations, Lord Kiso.”
“Kiso!” said the bonze, equally surprised; but certainly it made sense to him. Hidemi looked puzzled, but Prince Tahara clarified the so-called ronin’s identity for the vassal: “He is Yoshinake.”
In that instant, Yoshinake’s sword licked out like a flame. The marvelous sword of Okio cleaved through the magistrate’s metal hat and divided his face to the chin. Hidemi Hirota took a step forward, shocked by Yoshinake’s grim and unexpected deed. A moment later, Hidemi’s head flew off and Yoshinake turned upon Prince Tahara.
Tahara drew his sword and exclaimed, “Why this? We are friends!”
“Husband!” cried Tomoe, appalled.
“Don’t meddle!” he commanded; and she dared not disobey a husband.
Shuzo Tahara managed to deflect Yoshinake’s attempt to decapitate, but was not quick enough to keep himself from being gutted by the second slash of Yoshinake’s weapon. Finally, Yoshinake looked toward the bonze.
Bonze Shindo had a similar kind of training and knew what to expect from Yoshinake’s sword. The bonze wove a defense, striking with the metal shaku at the head of his staff. He strove to capture the tip of the deadly sword inside one of the shaku’s rings. But Shindo was only a novice priest while Yoshinake was a warrior tested in a hundred battles. After a few moments of keeping the attacker at bay, the ornate, rattling shaku was shorn off its pole. The bonze hopped back, helpless, and cried, “Permission! Permission!” He fell upon his knees in a begging posture.
“Permission for what?” Yoshinake growled.
“I will tell you in a minute!” said the monk, shaking but belligerent. He remained on hands and knees and did not look up. He tried to sound rude, but his life of good-naturedness gave him no skill at it. “Explain yourself to me,” he said, “if there is any respect left in you for the sect that made you so skillful!”
The warrior-in-white held back. He said, “You think you recognize my style, but it is not true that I was a student of the yamahoshi. As a matter of fact I studied with the yamabushi, your rival sect; but that is not why I attack you. Even as a mountain-born youth, I knew that I must seek more notice than the solitary lives of monastic warriors would permit, be they yamahoshi or yamabushi. So I left my prefecture and fought to my present station. I became the Rising Sun General at the center of Naipon’s intrigues. A gentler warrior could not have come so far. It is unfortunate to kill you, but cannot be helped. A year from now I will be in position to snatch more power than other samurai dare imagine. That is because I am close to the Shogun, who trusts no one before me. I have treason in mind, I will tell you; and there must be no indication of it until that time. There can be no witness to my role in the revenge performed for Okio, for it is something the Shogun would not approve, and to learn of it would shake his faith in me. I have liked you, bonze. But you must die.”
Shindo looked up from his posture, then sat back on his knees and folded his arms. “I am not relieved that you say you are fond of me. It seems to be no privilege. Nor am I enthused about your high-blown intentions. Talk is the measure of insincerity! Action is what matters! If you want to kill an insignificant monk, or commit treason against the high Shogun, do not worry about consequences. Only … be certain the action itself is meritorious.”
“I do not seek merit, Shindo, and will not be swayed by your subtle insult. Humanity is essentially benign; there is no sin, no goodness. Age, illness, mishap, death … we are destined to be failures in the end. Human beings and humane feelings are a fleeting impermanence. Nothing we do is important. Our swords are more eternal than ourselves. Doom is all that lasts.” Saying this, Yoshinake raised his sword to strike.
“Husband!” said Tomoe, who could keep obediently silent no longer. “What good is killing Shindo? He is an honorable man and if he promises to say nothing, there is no problem. There is anyway another witness: the woman who informed the magistrate.”
He looked at her. “Woman? So. It must have been that young warrior who challenged you in the street, then slipped away on seeing me. I will consider her your problem. She has forced you to fulfill her desire. Kill her when next she asks to duel!”
Tomoe stared at him in disbelief, trying to think of some way to save Shindo. “You are too wise for this,” she said. “You have slain a lord’s heir, and the favorite vassal of another lord. They will want to know who did this! They will not rest without an answer!”
“They cannot find out,” said Yoshinake. “I will break those three swords of Okio which were carried by Shindo and the two I’ve already killed. Thereby the blame will fall on Uchida Ieoshi, who everyone knows was jealous of the swordsmith. Uchida is smart enough to find some way out of the trouble, perhaps blaming his uncouth hirelings; but he is not smart enough to guess who sent the blame his way.”
“Can my husband be so cruel?” asked Tomoe, surprised at herself for pleading like wives are known to do, surprised at her husband for considering the ruin of three of Okio’s last five swords. Her eyes were sober and her thoughts unclear.
“Do not look at me as though I were a monster!” Yoshinake snapped. “I will pursue my end with strict sincerity, whatever you may feel. Nothing I do is villainy. Humanity itself is the fiend.”
Tomoe lowered her eyes and said softly, “Would that your soul could be as graceful as your body.”
Bonze Shindo interrupted. “I see that you cannot be swayed by my words or Tomoe’s. If you will grant me the permission, then: since you are certain my death is necessary, I would prefer to die by the hand of someone I respect, not by the hand of a fellow who can kill friends unhesitantly.”
“You mean Tomoe,” said Kiso Yoshinake. “It is a fair request, since you so abhor my philosophy. Your wish is granted!” Yoshinake sheathed his sword and said to his wife, “Tomoe! Kill him.”
Tomoe wavered. Shindo said to her, “Please grant this favor.” He bowed with forehead to ground.
“As you desire,” said Tomoe, but could not disguise her sorrow. She looked from bonze to Yoshinake and to Shindo once again. She drew her sword and raised it.
“One more thing,” said Shindo calmly, groping for the shaku which Yoshinake had cut from the head of the staff. “If it is no burden, it would be kind of you to return this to my fight-instructor in the yamahoshi retreat. Tell him for me that I apologize for not returning as I promised.”
“I will,” said Tomoe, her eyes filled with tears. The bonze set the shaku down near Tomoe’s feet. Then he bent his head to make his neck accessible. Tomoe took a half-step backward and said, “Human lives are too long,” meaning she would rather not have lived to see this day. Then she brought her sword down swiftly. Shindo’s torso slumped forward. His head with its pill-box hat was attached by the thinnest section of skin. Kiso Yoshinake’s severity softened and he said to his wife, “You are stronger than I guessed! Together, we will someday rule Naipon.”
Tomoe sheathed her sword and bent to take up Shindo’s shaku and placed it in her obi. “I believe you,” she said to her husband. She believed him, but was not certain that she cared.
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About the Author
Jessica Amanda Salmonson lives in the Pacific Northwest. She loves rats and Chihuahuas and has a big collection of gray-market samurai movies. Salm
onson is a recipient of the World Fantasy Award, the Lambda Literary Award, and the ReaderCon Certificate. She is a biblical scholar, atheist, vegetarian, progressive, and often annoyed.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1981, 1997 by Jessica Amanda Salmonson
Illustrations copyright © 1981, 1998 by Wendy Adrian Wess
Cover design by Andy Ross
ISBN: 978-1-4532-9346-1
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