The vendor handed her change. She had a thought that made her heart pound faster and bought several candied loquats, golden and juicy. Then she turned to the girls.
“Would you like one?” she asked, holding the candies out on the palm of her hand.
The girls eyed her with distaste. They said nothing.
Tomoe waited. Still nothing. She turned away.
Then Yoshinaka was muscling up alongside her. “Answer Tomoe.”
One girl wrinkled her nose. “I smell dung and despair. It must be a Minamoto.” The other girls laughed openly, several little boys joining in as they sensed some excitement afoot.
Tomoe stiffened, sure that her young foster brother would retaliate. If they got into a fight here, they would all be severely punished at home. But Yoshinaka only laughed and stuck one hand into his kimono on his chest. “One day you’ll wish to be a Minamoto, too, and don’t think I won’t remember who you are and what you said.” He stared at the girls with an expression that reminded Tomoe of their dog hunting a rabbit. The girl blanched, unwilling to escalate with the unpredictable Yoshinaka, and wobbled off, her friends following. “You don’t bother Tomoe, you hear?”
Wada, as she now thought of him, pulled her backward by her arm. “They’re not worthy of you, Tomoe,” he said. “Come on, Yoshinaka. Kanehira. Let’s find your father.” Still linking her arm with his, they left the stall.
“Here.” Kanehira was at her side. He handed her a mochi cake, heavy, filled with candied fruit. This was the most expensive thing at the stall, due to the rice being so expensive. He must have used his whole coin, maybe even two. She glanced at Yoshinaka and saw that he had no treat, and neither did Wada. All three of them had bought this for her. They did not acknowledge her, but kept walking, their eyes forward.
She knew they did not want thanks; it would embarrass them. Instead she held out the loquats for them. Each boy popped one into his mouth as they went back to locate Kaneto.
FIVE
Yamabuki
MIYAKO, THE CAPITAL
HONSHU, JAPAN
Spring 1169
Yamabuki folded her hands on her lap as she knelt behind her privacy screen, waiting for her mother to bring in her next client. Her short white kimono jacket had white embroidered cranes all over it. She smoothed it down. Only the dead and the soothsayers wore white kimonos. Yamabuki had gotten used to it. Under this, she wore a red top and red wide-legged pants.
Nine years ago, when Okāsan found that Yamabuki talked to her dead grandmother, she began boasting that her daughter had the gift of a soothsayer. Yamabuki could see the dead, who could see everything.
She was a miko, a woman who would once be found at Shinto shrines, supported by the local priests and nobles who depended on their advice. Some spoke in tongues, rolling their eyes back in their heads as they babbled in some strange spirit-language. Now these were scarce and some miko traveled like performers, while others were like Yamabuki. At home, seeing clients for money.
Only days later, her mother wrapped a white kimono around the little girl and began bringing in clients. For a small fee, she could speak to anyone you wanted. The income supplemented her mother’s needs, her father’s income.
Everyone from a dirty farmer who saved his coppers for a year to courtiers higher-ranked than her own father came to talk to her. Asking to speak to long-dead ancestors, for advice and guidance. To cast out evil obake, spirits that haunted and brought bad fortune. To beg long-dead lovers’ pardons.
The first fortune Yamabuki told was for a heavily pregnant noblewoman. She was dressed in a fine kimono and had not one but two female servants with her. Okāsan eyed the woman’s clothes, the brushed black hair, the fully appointed covered litter, with an openly avaricious gaze. The woman went pink.
“We’ll be ready in a moment,” Okāsan sang at her.
Okāsan prepared a small bare room, furnished only with a tatami mat and a small lacquered black table. On top of the table was a bowl with a single white lily floating in water. The room had no windows, but light filtered in through the cracks in the walls. Cracks that would soon be repaired. “Is my mother’s ghost here?” Okāsan asked, pushing Yamabuki into a kneeling position.
Yamabuki glanced around. “No.” She wasn’t entirely sure what her mother wanted her to do.
Okāsan’s lips thinned. “Just stare at the lily, like it’s showing you something.”
Yamabuki’s brow furrowed. “Like what?”
Okāsan smacked Yamabuki’s head. “The future, you idiot! Whatever she wants to hear.”
Yamabuki felt confused, but did as her mother asked.
Obāchan-obake appeared beside Yamabuki, her withered hand gripping Yamabuki’s in a cold, yet soothing, embrace. The noblewoman waddled in, casting a wan smile at Yamabuki. “You are so young,” she said.
“I cannot help what I am,” responded Yamabuki.
Obāchan-obake squeezed her wrist. Good girl.
“Tell me. Is this a boy or a girl? Healthy?” the woman asked.
Yamabuki stared at the water lily so hard she thought her eyes would pop out of her head. Obāchan-obake crossed the table and placed her hands on the woman’s belly. One ghostly hand reached inside and felt around, as if she was sticking her hand into a leather pouch, searching for a coin. Yamabuki gasped at the sight.
The woman gasped, too, doubling over, scooting away from the table. “My baby! My belly. What is happening?”
“Stop!” Yamabuki said, afraid, for the first time, of the ghost.
Obāchan-obake returned to her seat. It is a boy. But the cord is wrapped around his neck and he will die. She shook her head sadly.
Yamabuki’s stomach dropped. How could she tell this woman such horrible news? She was just a little girl herself. She stared at the woman’s belly, her hands going numb from her clenching them so hard.
“Tell her,” Okāsan said.
Yamabuki broke down into tears that turned quickly into sobs.
“Just spit it out!” Okāsan said.
Yamabuki took a breath and collected herself. She knew from experience that people often got angry at the people who told them bad news, even if the news was true. Once, her father had been demoted—not his fault, as a better-connected family member got his post—and her mother had punched him in the jaw. Now it popped every time her father opened his mouth too wide. She considered what to say. “A son. A fine big healthy boy,” Yamabuki burst out.
The noblewoman’s mouth widened into a relieved smile. She struggled to her feet, a fat bag of coins appearing in her hand. Okāsan helped see her out.
I am so sorry, child. Obāchan-obake squeezed her hand.
“Go away. Never come back,” she shouted at the ghost. But the ghost refused to budge, looking on sadly with her hollow eyes.
The baby died, but no one blamed Yamabuki. The success of Yamabuki’s first reading traveled quickly, and soon there was a daily line of people who wanted Yamabuki to tell their fortunes or speak to the dead.
But the only obake Yamabuki could see was her own obāchan. And sometimes she wasn’t sure whether her obāchan was just an imagined friend.
For most, Yamabuki made up stories. She told the farmer to keep an extra eye on his crops, because someone wanted to steal them. She figured this could be true—people were always stealing crops. She told a courtier his wife was having an affair with another—also easy, as she had heard the maid and her mother gossiping. So far, she had been very lucky.
Everyone in the capital heard of her. Her father had gotten a raise, been promoted. All because of her, Okāsan bragged. Okāsan and her soothsaying daughter.
The most popular imayō, or song, of the day was Ryōjin Hishō, song 364, about a mother looking for her child. Akemi, Yamabuki’s maid, first sang it to her.
My child . . . soothsayer she’s become, I hear,
>
Out wandering the land.
The song made Yamabuki long for her mother. Not her actual mother, but an imaginary mother who would hold her and be kind to her. She wiped at her eyes. “Don’t sing it again.”
“It’s about you,” Akemi told her.
“No. In the song, the mother doesn’t have her child. They are poor.”
“Does your mother have you?” Akemi asked, and Yamabuki had no answer.
Now she held one of her father’s books in her lap, pretending to read. It was only The Tale of Genji, and she had read it a hundred times now. “A depiction of a court life that is rapidly changing,” her father had remarked sadly. The novel was written more than a hundred years earlier. Yamabuki still loved the poetic images, the romantic nature of the admittedly promiscuous Genji’s heart.
The screen opened and Akemi appeared, not Okāsan. Akemi was now tall and beautiful, a woman at age fifteen. “Your appointment has been canceled. He’ll be here tomorrow instead.” She did not step inside, but beckoned Yamabuki out. “It’s too fine a day to be inside.”
Yamabuki went out but gasped as the sun hit her skin. It felt like a thousand ants crawled on her. She scurried to the shade by the koi pond. “Ai. No. It’s awful out here.” It felt like she’d stepped into a suffocating, steamy bath.
Akemi shrugged. “Tell me a poem. Take your mind off the heat.”
Yamabuki closed her eyes and recited the first line of a poem that came to mind. “In the sky, as birds that share a wing / On earth, as trees that share a branch.”
“Pretty. What does it mean?” Akemi sat down next to her.
“How should I know?” Yamabuki felt petulant. Her stomach hurt. She clenched her fists, the heat continuing to sear at her skin. Then she bent and scooped up a handful of pond water, splashing Akemi full in the face.
Akemi looked as startled as Yamabuki felt. She hadn’t meant to hit her friend directly in the face. “Sumimasen,” Yamabuki said immediately.
“Oh, you want to play like that, do you? I bet you can’t take it.” Akemi splashed Yamabuki back, soaking her head. The water felt good.
They stared at each other, then began splashing in earnest, the koi fish scattering to the far end in fright. Yamabuki shrieked as Akemi held open her kimono, sending a handful of cold water down her front. “Cooled down yet?” Akemi shouted.
“How about you?” Yamabuki had never felt so bold. She poured water down Akemi’s front.
“It’s slimy!” Akemi shrieked as the liquid coursed down her bare chest. “Get it off of me! I think there’s a fish in it!”
Yamabuki laughed. “There’s no fish.”
“I feel it! It’s in my kimono!” Akemi danced around. “Ai!”
“Stop moving.” Yamabuki put her hand inside Akemi’s kimono. Her flesh felt cool. She patted around Akemi’s ribs. “I don’t feel anything.” Her hand went upward.
Akemi gasped, her long lashes fluttering.
Yamabuki froze, looking into Akemi’s eyes. Akemi’s were as dark and deep as a well. Both of them held their breath. Warmth overtook Yamabuki’s whole body, shaking her, and she stepped away, confused. What had just happened?
Akemi stuck her own hand into her robes. “Here,” she said triumphantly. In her palm was a tiny tadpole.
“Girls!” Yamabuki’s father stood only inches away, his mouth open and eyes wide. His slight, scholarly frame swam in his brown kimono. “What are you doing?”
Both of them clasped their kimonos closed tight. “Nothing.” Yamabuki couldn’t bear to look at either her father or Akemi.
He pushed her aside and bent down. “You’ve gotten my book wet. These are not cheap, you know.” He picked up the damp Tale of Genji, holding it tenderly in his skinny hands.
Yamabuki blew out a long breath. She bowed. “Sumimasen, Otōsan.”
Akemi bent even lower, all the way to the ground.
Otōsan sighed, glancing up at the sky. “It should dry quickly on a day like this. But clean yourselves up before your mother sees you.”
SIX
Tomoe Gozen
HIRAIDE RUINS
SHINANO PROVINCE
HONSHU, JAPAN
Spring 1169
The boys were too far ahead.
They were hiding again, as they had when they were small. Back then, they had hidden for fun. Now, they hid to test themselves. To see if Tomoe could find them. If they had done well, she should not be able to.
They had gone to the Hiraide Ruins, not far from their farm. This place was home to Japan’s oldest ruins—pottery dating from ancient times had been found here, and there were remnants of pit houses, too. The deep holes the ancient Jomon people had dug out were still here, their walls squared off. They lived in the pit, putting roof structures over the top. Tomoe shivered to think of all the people who had once made this their home. She hoped there were no ghosts.
All of them had played here as children, hiding in the pits and springing out at each other. Yet Tomoe was not completely at ease with the ruins. With each season, another layer of leaves from the overhanging beech trees and blown-in dirt covered the pits, so the landscape underwent a constant metamorphosis. Tomoe proceeded cautiously, in case branches and leaves completely covered a pit. It was also possible the boys had set a trap for her, which they should not have done. Falling into a pit would break her horse’s leg, if not Tomoe’s. Nonetheless, she didn’t discount the possibility.
Tomoe pulled up on her little white mare, Yuki, and dismounted. Yuki had been fitted with Kaneto’s old kura, a saddle. It was a faded brown, the leather seat worn into her father’s shape. For her brothers, Kaneto had saved his best saddles—Yoshinaka had a black lacquer one, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, while Kanehira had a black one with red lacquer accents. Her father said hers was the best for shooting with bow and arrow, though. “Just because it looks rough, Tomoe, doesn’t mean it is,” Kaneto had said. He had taken off the leather seat to show her. The wooden parts of the saddle underneath were connected with cord, so each part moved separately but had stability across the horse’s back. “This makes for a sturdy platform when shooting, the best I have ever used,” he had said, patting the wood. “Your aim will always be true on this.”
“Shouldn’t Yoshinaka get this one, then?” Tomoe had asked. She wanted the prettier saddle, the one with mother-of-pearl accents. She pictured Yuki in it with a red bridle, red fringe hanging from the saddle blanket and bridle. Samurai horses didn’t go into battle plain.
“Both boys refused it,” he answered, a disappointed slant to his posture. “The boys wanted what looked better on the surface, instead of what was better. But I know that you won’t make that mistake.”
Now Tomoe thanked her father for his wisdom. Though she had gotten the ugliest saddle by default, it was indeed more stable; and whether by talent or the saddle, she was indeed the best archer. It was difficult enough to get an arrow out of a quiver and fire it from the back of a galloping horse. To do so accurately took a great deal of practice. Tomoe had never been afraid of hard work.
She surveyed the trees scattered amid the ruins, the thicker forest around the perimeter. No hint of the boys revealed itself, no shattered vegetation, no visible footprints. Her mouth tasted acrid brush smoke, but she saw none rising. The day was overcast, the light dim, just west of overhead. The boys were better at these games now, she had to admit.
At sixteen, Tomoe was taller than her mother, taller than her younger brother, Kanehira, who at fifteen still had a high voice and slight frame. Yoshinaka had done his growing this past winter, shooting up during a time when everything else went dormant. Always, he had to be contrary, even in growing.
“Go to the right,” Yoshimori Wada said, trotting up next to her and swinging himself to the ground. She still liked to call him Wada, because it both irritated and amused him. He hadn’t been coming around much
for the past year, as his father needed more help on his farm. Tomoe missed him. Wada was her regular teammate. Kaneto felt it was important for Yoshinaka and Kanehira to stick together, as they would forever.
And now Wada was Tomoe’s suitor, of a sort. For who else would be her suitor? There was no other young man of suitable age, or rank. Only farmers—and Yoshinaka, her foster brother. She was fonder of him than she was of her blood brother, but still—in her imagination, he remained the little boy she’d chased. Though, as her parents had reminded her since childhood, he was not her little brother, but her charge—and she was to treat him like the lord he would grow up to be.
“That Wada idiot follows you like a motherless puppy,” Yoshinaka remarked. It embarrassed Tomoe, how Wada was always willing to fetch her food or drinks or help her onto her horse, when she was capable of doing these things herself. She did not want to be beholden to him.
Today Wada was not supposed to be here at all, but he had run over in mid-morning, asking if he could help. “We don’t need any extra people,” Yoshinaka had said. But Wada said he would carry Tomoe’s naginata, since she had no proper retainer to carry it for her. Someday she would, Kaneto promised. Someday, when Yoshinaka was a general.
Yoshinaka had become more serious about his training. Last summer, the Taira had begun sending soldiers out to quench small alliances around Japan. It happened when they visited the swordmaker to get a sword for Yoshinaka.
The swordmaker had a permanent hunch in his back from bending over his irons, smashing the blazing-hot metal into tachi, the short samurai sword curving about thirty inches long. Despite the hunch and his white hair, the man swung his hammer effortlessly as he squatted over the anvil. Tomoe stood back from the sparks and glanced around his dark shop, lit only by the forge fire. There were no swords hanging on the plain stone walls; he made each to order. He hung many of his tools from the maze of exposed ceiling rafters. Only his workspace was cluttered with metal ingots, troughs of water, buckets of clay.
Tale of the Warrior Geisha Page 3
