“You drew blood.” Tomoe’s father’s voice was behind her. She whirled to see him.
He pointed to Yoshinaka, who had a small cut on his cheek. Yoshinaka grinned. “It doesn’t hurt, Tomoe.”
Tomoe watched her father stride across the yard to her. She gripped the old tachi so tightly her hands went numb. Was this his breaking point? Seeing his daughter using the tachi, meant for males only? His face was unreadable.
“Why are you not using the wooden practice swords?” Kaneto asked.
Yoshinaka met his gaze. “We don’t need them.”
Kaneto’s face creased into deep ridges. He took Yoshinaka’s sword. “Show me, Tomoe.”
“You, Father?” Tomoe hesitated.
“Show me what you can do.” Kaneto pulled up his loose pants, arranging the extra material over his sash. He held Yoshinaka’s sword aloft.
She regarded him. It seemed she had the advantage here; she had seen her father fight many times with this sword, but he had seen her only once. She knew his left side tended to be weaker than his right, and he was less fleet of foot now. She knew Yoshinaka could dodge most of her blows, but what about Kaneto? What if she accidentally sliced through him? “Should we use the wooden practice swords?” she asked.
“Don’t lose confidence now,” he barked. “Ichi-go, ichi-e.”
Ichi-go, ichi-e. One encounter, one chance. With a sword like this, in combat like this, there was only one opportunity to kill or be killed.
One opportunity to not make any mistakes.
Further thinking would slow her down. She charged him, feinting left, before maneuvering around him to attack. He deflected her easily, coming back at her so ferociously she nearly was run through the stomach. She leaped away. He didn’t hesitate, coming at her back. She did a flip to her left, using her left hand to brace herself. His sword whistled through air near her ear. She landed on her feet and, without pausing, swept under her father’s feet. He stumbled to the ground but deflected her attack. Metal clanged on metal in a rhythm that sang with Tomoe’s blood. She might be dreaming, she thought. Sword fighting was her meditation.
“Stop!” Yoshinaka shouted, and Tomoe looked down to see her knees pinning down her father’s shoulders.
Terrified, she leaped up. “Father! Are you all right?”
Kaneto rolled over and waved off Yoshinaka’s helping hand. “Never apologize for besting me, Tomoe. It’s what I want you to do.” He spat out a clump of dirt, mingled with blood and saliva, and wiped the sweat from his brow. When he met her eyes, his smile was big. “You, my girl, are getting your own tachi.”
Kaneto kept his word and bought her a tachi, a beautiful steel beast with vines and flowers engraved on the blade. Her mother had protested, of course. “Most samurai use a bow and arrows!” she said.
“You need both,” Kaneto had silenced her. “The gods gave Tomoe a gift. I have never seen anyone like her.”
“The gods put the gift into the wrong body,” Chizuru had said.
One of the dogs barked and licked Tomoe’s hand, bringing her attention back to the lotus roots. “Do you think we’ll ever have a real battle?” she asked her mother.
“This is not the question a mother dreams her daughter will ask her.” Chizuru clucked and frowned. “Are you excited for tonight?” she asked, changing the subject. “Wada-san is coming back. Haven’t their family fortunes improved.” Chizuru smiled, as if it had been her own family to marry up.
“I’d rather stay here on the farm than go work for the Taira.” Tomoe had lost her chance, if she ever cared to think of it as a chance. To her, it seemed she had escaped a dull fate. Yoshimori, through the combined efforts of Kaneto, his new brother-in-law, and several Minamoto cousins, had gotten a clerk job in the capital. “I will be your eyes and ears on the inside,” he had promised Kaneto. But Tomoe doubted Yoshimori would ever risk his new job to help them. Already he was heard to be cultivating relationships with better-connected women there. Probably truly composing poetry for them and visiting them at night, Tomoe thought. Wada had the reputation of a ladies’ man. Just like his hero, Genji.
Besides, Wada had left without saying a proper good-bye to her, proving what Tomoe thought: she was merely a convenient village girl. Kaneto had a going-away dinner for him, their families both laughing and joking throughout. At the end, he had bowed to all of them, thanked them for their help, and gone on his way. He had not even waved to her alone.
“Much can be done with allies on the inside,” Chizuru said.
“The Taira are only hiring outsiders to placate the Minamoto supporters,” Tomoe said. “Our people will never have any real power in the Taira government.”
“Whatever the reason, at least we can have a good feast tonight,” Chizuru said, finishing her third root. “It’s been too long since we had a celebration.” She smiled at Tomoe. “Which kimono shall you wear? The pink one?”
“I don’t care, Mother,” Tomoe said, but relented at her mother’s disappointed expression. She knew her mother was worried about her. She was seventeen years old, and other girls—women—her age had already been married for a few years by now. Chizuru had not grasped the fact, as Kaneto had, that their only daughter was meant for a different life. “Yes, the pink. But I’m still going to wear my sword.”
Chizuru rolled her eyes. She leaned forward with a serious expression. “It’s not too late for you and Wada-san.”
Tomoe didn’t answer her. “Mother, who do you think Yoshinaka will marry?”
“Yoshinaka?” Chizuru stared at her daughter, suddenly alert. “A noblewoman, I imagine. He is a lord.”
Tomoe attacked another lotus root. Of course. Not her. Who was Tomoe suitable for? No one.
Chizuru put her hand on Tomoe’s. “I know you and Yoshinaka are not brother and sister,” she said gently, “but for your own sake, try to forget him. See Wada’s good points.”
Tomoe nodded once.
Chizuru placed all the roots into a pot and walked off.
“Good points,” Tomoe mumbled to herself. She clanged the pot of vegetables down. “What good points are those? His poetry? His ability to ignore me?”
Her father ambled over, stroking his beard thoughtfully. It seemed to Tomoe that more white hairs appeared by the minute, studding his hair like snowflakes on burned-out ground. “Did you say something?” His voice was contemplative, not stern.
Tomoe hung her head anyway. “I was only talking to myself, Father.”
He put a hand on her shoulder. “I know it’s difficult for you, Tomoe. If you wanted to marry Wada-san, I would help arrange it.”
“What makes you think he wants to marry me?” Tomoe gathered up the shavings for the compost pile. Her parents seemed to think she had the pick of men. “I’m not cultured enough. Besides, can you imagine me at court? Bowing and scraping my head for the ladies? I’d be bored out of my mind. One of them would end up dead.”
“Tomoe, you are not like the other girls. You are better than they are. Higher-born, though we are only farmers now. Remember that.” Kaneto bent his head to look at Tomoe’s face. “I do not want to see your head hung low. Do you understand me?”
“Yes.” She looked at his eyes, now with wrinkles fanning around the edges.
“The world as we know it now is coming to an end,” Kaneto said, dropping his hand from her shoulder. “When it does, all those simpering rich girls at court who do nothing but read poetry and play music will perish. They don’t know how to survive. You do.”
“But when?” Tomoe said.
“When the time is right. No sooner.”
She considered this. Tomoe embraced her father. He was so wise, and always knew just what to say. Her mother loved her, but her father was the only one who truly understood her. He rubbed her back. “In the meantime, you’d better go help your mother cook.”
—
<
br /> It wasn’t until well after dark that Tomoe saw Wada-san at the feast. It was held in Kiso-Fukushima, on the grounds of the Kozen-ji temple, one of the grandest temples in the area, with ten buildings on the premises. To Tomoe, the main temple looked almost like a palace, perched as it was on a high hill, with a long sweeping curved roofline. The grounds were surrounded by tall trees and gardens with ponds and cherry trees everywhere.
The courtyard for the feast was crisscrossed above with thick wisteria vines, purple blossoms cascading down with sweet scent. Everyone had brought dishes to share at the makeshift tables set up. Petals and dropped leaves crunched under Tomoe’s feet. Lit lanterns swung over the revelers, and someone had banged a drum and sang. Several drunk people danced, arms linked, laughing. The air was still hot and humid. People seemed to feel the drink more during this weather.
Tomoe sat on a cushion and picked at her mother’s lotus root dish. They had cut up the root into disks that looked like wheels, cooked it in fish stock, and seasoned it with sesame and ginger. It was good. She wondered if Yoshinaka wanted some; this was his favorite. She looked around for him. He was a distance away out of the courtyard, talking to a girl older than Tomoe, his head bent low. The girl laughed suddenly, the sound cutting through the din as clear as a gong. The girl put her arms around Yoshinaka’s neck.
Tomoe turned away, the lotus roots turning to lead in her mouth. She swallowed. Why should she care? He was only her foster brother. He was sixteen, a man by most people’s measure. No one expected him to pledge himself to Tomoe and only Tomoe forever.
Except perhaps Tomoe.
Yet she did care. She swallowed the roots and put her hand to her stomach, to stanch the sudden pain there.
“Tomoe.”
She recognized the voice immediately. “Hello, Wada-san.” Her voice sounded calm, fortunately. She looked up at him, but his face was in shadow.
He cringed, then smiled. “Again, you are the only person existing who may call me that.” He took her hands and helped her up. She barely used her muscles. He’d gotten stronger.
Now she could see his face. It had lost a little bit of the roundness, but he was the same old Wada. He grinned impishly, and she noticed a dimple at the left corner of his mouth. How had she missed that before? His sons would inherit that, she thought. She did not know why she thought of Wada’s future sons.
They walked out of the courtyard and away from the party. The moon hung low and impossibly huge on the horizon, in hues of orange. Tomoe reached her hand out toward it. “It looks close enough to touch.”
“The moonlight suits you.” Wada still had her hand.
Her heart beat harder. “How long will you be home?”
“Not long enough.” Wada smiled. “Two days.”
A soft wind blew up, rustling the trees around them and cooling Tomoe’s skin. A thrush sang out. Tomoe stopped. “Listen.”
Wada stopped too, putting his hand on Tomoe’s cheek. “A thrush’s song is not half as sweet as your voice, Tomoe. I’ve missed you.”
She gulped, forcing a grin. She took a step back. “Oh, Wada-san. You’ve been studying poetry in the capital.” She whistled the thrush’s song, and the bird sang back in reply.
“Tomoe. Can’t you be serious?” Wada dropped his hand.
“I am serious, Wada-san. It’s you who are not. We all know you’ve been seeing all manner of upper-class women in the capital. I know you will not marry me, because I cannot increase your rank.” She studied his face to confirm her blunt statement. He had the grace to blush. She knew what he wanted—a quick tryst. Something to occupy him while he was home. It would only be trouble for her.
Yet this same thought had not stopped her with Yoshinaka.
“You wouldn’t like life in the capital anyway. You would be like a dog tied to a tree, pacing back and forth all day until you went mad.” He started back along the path, his feet crunching.
“That wasn’t very poetic. Surely you can do better than to compare me to a dog.” She caught up to him and punched him lightly on the arm. Wada was right. She would go mad there, not allowed to fight or ride horses or all the things she could do while under her father’s roof.
“But the real reason you refuse me is because you are in love with Yoshinaka.”
She stopped moving and stared. Wada looked at her face from under his lashes. No, she almost said, but she did not. The crickets played their lonesome song.
“He will never marry you. You cannot increase his rank, either.” Wada’s tone was brisk. “You will be only a novelty in his army. Like a dancing monkey who can fight with a sword. Something to entertain the men, give him a name beyond this region. Take your pick: be his concubine, or mine.”
She turned away so he could not see her face, gazing up at the moon as if it was a talisman that would tell her what her future held. “I never knew you to be cruel, Wada.” She tried to keep her voice calm, but she wanted to shove him. He was correct, of course. Her choices were limited. But she knew her place was with her family. In Yoshinaka’s army as an onnamusha. This was the life she had, and she could choose no other. “I would rather be a warrior in his army than a kept woman in the capital,” she said.
He touched her arm. “We are friends, and friends are honest. Like you are with me.”
The thrushes and crickets went quiet all at once. Tomoe stopped moving. The hairs on her arms rose. Something was wrong.
Screams rose up from the wedding party and people ran away from the pavilion like ants from boiling water. Smoke filled the air. She exchanged a glance with Wada and both broke into a full run. She did not have her sword—her mother would not hear of her having a sword at a celebration like this.
The main temple’s roof was on fire, the banquet table kicked aside, their dishes strewn all over. Shadowy figures fought with swords. It looks like a shadow puppet show, Tomoe thought. Who is who? Yoshinaka. Kanehira. Kaneto. She picked them out of the crowd. Who was attacking?
She ran to the scene. As she arrived, one of the unfamiliar men swung his sword at Tomoe, and without thinking she leaped forward past the steel, looped her arm around his neck and twisted, feeling the vertebrae snap under her flesh. She threw him to the ground. She kicked his arm and picked up his sword.
But then she heard a cry, a grunt combined with an airless scream. Kaneto!
She reached her father as he fell. Blood seeped out from under him onto the gravel. He clutched both hands to his stomach. “Tomoe,” he whispered. “You did a fine job with your jūjutsu, little one.”
“I learned from the best.” She put her hands over his wound. Liquid soaked them both. The wound, she realized, went all the way through her father. Nearby, Wada cut down another man with a shout.
Kaneto coughed. “It is the Taira Search and Punish crew.”
“Find Mother!” Tomoe shouted to Wada. She tore off her outer kimono and used it to stanch her father’s wound. “You’ll be fine,” she said, more to herself than to him. “You are all right.”
“Ichi-go, ichi-e. My one chance is gone.” Kaneto put his head back. His face had gone white. “Where’s your mother?”
“I don’t know.” The blood kept pumping out, like a mountain spring. What else could she do? She had never felt more helpless. “Don’t give up.”
“Tomoe,” Kaneto said, his voice so low she could barely hear it. “Take care of Yoshinaka. Of all of them. They are lost without you.”
“Of course.” Tomoe pressed down harder. “But you will be fine. You will die an old man, my son on your knee.” Perhaps Chizuru knew how to stitch up a wound this vicious. Tomoe fought off her rising panic. “Help!” she screamed. “Mother, where are you?”
“Tomoe!” Chizuru called, making her way between the fighters, led by Wada. Chizuru’s face was black with soot. She stumbled to the ground and covered Kaneto’s wounds with a folded cloth. “Move,
Tomoe. Let me try.”
Tomoe moved to the side and stepped away. She could not imagine this world without her father. Not yet. She breathed in and out until she stopped shaking. She stood and looked around.
Most of the battle was over, but the pavilion roof still flamed. Buckets of water sizzled uselessly against it. This place was lost.
Yoshinaka stood at Tomoe’s side. His fine clothes were covered in blood and bits of flesh, but he looked more exhilarated than tired. He put his arm around Tomoe. “Nine Taira,” Yoshinaka said with disgust. “Idiots. Why would they send such an unlucky number?” Nine, or ku, also meant pain and suffering. “If they think this will stop me, they are fools.”
A woman wailed long and loud. Tomoe jumped, at first not knowing from where the sound originated. “Ie, ie, ie,” Chizuru howled out the two syllables over and over. “No.” Her breath gone, Chizuru put her head down and cried quietly.
Tomoe moved back toward her parents. Her father’s blue face had open, glassy eyes, like a caught fish. Dark blood pooled around him, already cooled. “Father?”
The fire snapped behind her.
This isn’t real, she thought. It cannot be. But of course it was.
Yoshinaka put his hand on her shoulder. He squeezed. She spun and embraced him, and he held her close. His smell made her stomach turn, but that was only the remnants of battle. Underneath, she caught the same scent she’d inhaled in the cherry orchard. Earth and sweetness. Without him, she would have collapsed.
“We will make him proud, Tomoe,” Yoshinaka whispered.
She put her cheek against his neck, their skin wet with tears and blood. Yes, she said in her head. We will make him proud.
Yoshinaka released her, then picked up her father and carried him away.
NINE
Tomoe Gozen
IWAMURA TOWN
SHINANO PROVINCE
Tale of the Warrior Geisha Page 6