Tale of the Warrior Geisha

by Margaret Dilloway

  SHINANO PROVINCE

  HONSHU, JAPAN

  Spring 1174

  Tomoe refused to meet her mother’s reproachful glare. Yamabuki stumbled over the uneven, rain-soaked ground in her geta and white tabi, carrying a basket of laundry down to the stream. She must learn to be strong, Tomoe thought. We do her no good by coddling. She had been here nearly a month, and this was the first time Yamabuki had emerged to do anything besides sit on the sidelines, watching the activity. When she volunteered in her spectral voice to help, Tomoe handed her the basket of laundry without a word.

  The snow had finally melted. Baby birds chirped hungrily in nests, daffodils bloomed brighter than the sun, and even the brook seemed to sing a happy song. She wanted to stomp on every single one of them. It was normally Tomoe’s favorite time of year. When suddenly the dullness of winter vanished and new energy filled your legs? But Tomoe still felt dimmed, rusted as a blade stuck and forgotten in dirt.

  Tomoe scrubbed a kimono on a rock, her hands nearly frozen in the cold water, her legs bent in a squat beside the water. Here, everyone had to do some work. Even the new lady-wife of Yoshinaka, who was now asking everyone to call him Lord Yoshinaka. “She’s used to sitting inside, doing nothing but staring into space as she thinks of poetry,” Tomoe muttered to her mother. Tomoe couldn’t imagine such a life.

  “She’s barely more than a child.” Chizuru wrung out underclothes. They both watched Yamabuki pick her way down the bank, waving at them. Chizuru waved back. “She doesn’t know what to do. Think of how she feels. Her parents practically sold her off to the notorious Kiso, the countryside brute. No one else would have her.”

  “He’s not a brute.” Tomoe sighed. “Yamabuki!” she called. “This is not the city. This is the country. We don’t wear these tabi to do chores. You understand?” She spoke slowly, as she would have to a dull child.

  Yamabuki bowed her head. “I apologize,” she said in her whispery voice. Even the skin on her head was moonlit white. Tomoe hoped the girl wouldn’t wither away. At least, not on her watch.

  “Ah.” Tomoe took the clothes from her. “Fresh air is good for you, don’t you know that?” She examined the girl, waving the gnats away from Yamabuki’s eyes. The bugs were starting to be active, and Yamabuki seemed to be more of a target than the others. Already her face had a few red welts from where she had been bitten.

  Yamabuki flushed a little as Tomoe looked at her. She bent her head. “The bugs are attracted to me,” she said, in a low, ashamed voice.

  “That’s because you’re so sweet,” Chizuru said.

  Tomoe rolled her eyes. If Tomoe had ever complained about bug bites, Chizuru would have told her to toughen up. She treated this girl better than her own daughter.

  Yamabuki knelt in the mud beside Chizuru, her kimono directly in the mud. Tomoe wondered if there was something wrong with her brain.

  “Oh, no!” Chizuru said. “Don’t kneel. Squat, like we are.”

  Yamabuki tried to imitate them. She managed to sink down only about halfway. “I can’t. It hurts.”

  “Try again,” Chizuru urged. “You only need a bit of practice.”

  Yamabuki attempted to squat again, but couldn’t put the heels of her feet down. As her bottom neared the ground, she lost her balance and fell over. “Oh!” Yamabuki put up one egg-white hand, covered in mud. “I haven’t got the hang of it.”

  Tomoe stood. If the girl was to survive in any capacity, she would need help. She faced Yamabuki. “Hold my hands.”

  The girl took her hands. They were very small and frozen in hers, the skin papery and dry.

  “Now, I will squat, too. You hold on to me.” They bent their knees, lowering their bottoms slowly, holding hands tightly, arms outstretched, until their legs landed in the squat position.

  Yamabuki’s eyebrows went up into surprised curlicues. “It’s working!”

  “Of course it is.” Tomoe released her. Yamabuki frowned as she tried to bear her own weight. “See, Yamabuki Gozen? You just do as I say, and you’ll be fine.”

  Yamabuki squat-walked over to the water, her geta squishing in the mud, her white tabi splattered brown. Tomoe stifled a giggle. The girl dipped a kimono into the water gingerly, observing how Chizuru was scrubbing before attempting an imitation. “This place is so beautiful, Chizuru-san. I love the mountains.”

  Tomoe looked about. She had grown up here and noticed the landscape only if it affected her, such as whether she needed an extra kimono for the cold. She tried to see it through Yamabuki’s eyes.

  A breeze blew through the pine trees bordering the other side of the small river. Birds cuckooed and called each other in wild song, darting in and out of the green space. On the riverbank, white daisies were beginning to bloom. Narcissus and wild lilies poked their newly bloomed yellow and purple heads out behind Chizuru. Beyond, the higher elevations still had snowcapped peaks, the spring frost not yet touching them.

  Yamabuki scrubbed ineffectually at the cloth. Tomoe wrinkled her nose. They would be better off with a toddler helping them. She glanced at Chizuru, hoping her mother would correct Yamabuki, but Chizuru said nothing.

  Suddenly, the girl stopped scrubbing and spouted a poem:

  “Timid, the pines sway in the springtime breeze.

  Birds looking for their homes.

  An iris blooms in the still-hard ground.”

  The girl blushed, as though embarrassed.

  Chizuru clapped. “How pretty! How lucky we are to have such a girl here. Our lives have been too long without poetry.”

  Tomoe frowned. She, Tomoe, could write poetry if she wanted. Besides, Chizuru shouldn’t encourage foolishness. The girl needed toughening up. “The ground isn’t hard. You’re in the mud.”

  Chizuru clucked. “Oh, Tomoe. The poem is about her. She is the timid pine.”

  “And you are the iris in the frozen ground.” Yamabuki relayed this with a shy smile.

  “Oh.” This mollified Tomoe. No one had called her an iris before. “Is that what you did in the capital? Sat around and thought of poetry?”

  “Sometimes.” Yamabuki returned to scrubbing. “It was much more boring there, honestly. I wasn’t allowed to do anything. I spent most days alone. When visitors came over, my mother made me sit behind a screen. She is very old-fashioned.”

  Tomoe wondered if Yamabuki had ever come across Wada. After all, Yamabuki’s father and Wada were both courtiers. Wada and his poetry, his round face. She smiled at the memory. No, she would not ask. For even if Yamabuki were to tell her, Tomoe might not want to know.

  “This must be quite shocking,” Chizuru said. “All these people. Especially all these men!”

  “Yes, Yoshinaka was quite . . . shocking.” Now Yamabuki colored and scrubbed a lot harder.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to him. I did.” Tomoe, giggling, surprised herself with her boldness. It was fun to tease Yamabuki, who now bowed her head even lower, her face deepening into crimson.

  Chizuru reprimanded Tomoe with a soft slap to her shoulder. “Tomoe Gozen. Ladies don’t speak of such things.”

  “Nor do real ladies have to wash laundry.” Tomoe wrung out her kimono. She stood. “We are far from real ladies out here. You better help along Yamabuki, Mother, or we’ll have to rewash everything.”

  Yamabuki burst into tears, her hands clapping over her face. The kimono caught in the stream. Tomoe rushed forward and grabbed it out of the water, not caring if her bare feet got wet. “What’s the matter with you? What does crying ever solve?” She was incensed. Nobody had ever cared if Tomoe cried.

  “Tomoe, hush.” Chizuru put her arm around Yamabuki and rocked her. Yamabuki clutched Chizuru back with a howl, causing Chizuru to sit right in the mud. Chizuru didn’t mind. She continued to rock Yamabuki until her wild sobs quieted. “She has been torn away from her family, Tomoe. I am as close to a mother
-in-law as she has. And you are her sister. You have always had your family. You always will.”

  Tomoe felt ashamed. Going from a life of doing nothing, to a life in the north with a new hairy husband, would be wrenching. It wasn’t as though Yamabuki had chosen Yoshinaka on her own. Or as though Yoshinaka had chosen Yamabuki. All things considered, Yoshinaka surely preferred Tomoe’s hardiness and practicality over Yamabuki’s fragility.

  Chizuru stared at Tomoe, her eyes flashing. Tomoe sighed. She knew what that meant. Chizuru had already told Tomoe to treat the new girl like a little sister.

  “Hey, Yamabuki. Tell you what.” Tomoe squatted down and peered into Yamabuki’s reddened and puffy eyes. Why, she was still in her teens, Tomoe thought with a pang. Seemingly much younger, kept locked away from the real world. No wonder she was nonfunctional. Automatically, she smoothed back the girl’s hair. Yamabuki smelled faintly of sandalwood. “We’ll go into town today. Buy you some mochi candy.” She lifted the girl’s hair. It was as soft as rabbit fur, smooth and glossy. In the sun she saw hints of blue tone under the black. “Maybe a pretty new comb. Would you like that, Yamabuki-chan?”

  Yamabuki lifted her puffy face from Chizuru’s shoulder. “I’d like that very much.”

  Tomoe handed Yamabuki the kimono that had floated away. “But you still have to finish the wash first.”

  —

  They were not quite finished with the laundry when Yoshinaka appeared, holding two short swords. “Tomoe,” he said, or rather barked. “Come along. I have new farmers. We will do a demonstration.”

  Tomoe stood, her legs stiff, glad to leave the wash behind. She glanced toward Chizuru. “We can finish. Go on,” Chizuru said.

  Yamabuki stared at the swords, at Tomoe. Tomoe wondered what the girl was thinking.

  “Come on. Daylight is short.” Yoshinaka gestured to her.

  Tomoe moved her head toward Yamabuki. She felt sorry for the girl, so bent over the laundry, her hands already red and chapped. “Okāsan, can you spare Yamabuki? Perhaps she would like to observe.”

  Yoshinaka let out an impatient sound. “She doesn’t need to observe. She needs to wash.”

  Yamabuki demurred. “Yes, I must finish the washing.”

  But Chizuru pushed at the girl. “You need a break. Run along.”

  Yamabuki stood uncertainly as a calf, her kimono caked in mud. Tomoe held out her hand to help Yamabuki cross the slippery bank. A streak of mud lay across her cheek.

  Yoshinaka laughed. “You look like you’ve been rolling with pigs! Perhaps you should leave your clothes for Chizuru to launder.”

  The girl’s eyes filled. “Hush,” Tomoe said, suddenly protective. How like Yoshinaka to be insensitive. She put her arm around the girl.

  Yoshinaka snorted. “She’s going to have to toughen up to live here.”

  “Give her time,” Tomoe said, aware she was taking on her mother’s role.

  They walked to a clearing, where a half-dozen farmers waited for them, along with Kanehira. Her brother narrowed his eyes and sat down. Tomoe directed Yamabuki to sit on a small boulder. She did, her fingers laced over her knees, her eyes wide. Yoshinaka threw the short sword to Tomoe, who caught it by the handle. The farmers gasped, as did Yamabuki, the girl’s hand flying to her eyes.

  “That is not a proper way to handle a weapon.” Tomoe stuck the sword through her obi on her left side. She was mostly joking. This kind of showmanship was what she loved best: she and Yoshinaka doing things no one else had the audacity to even dream up.

  Yoshinaka removed his jacket, so he was bare-chested, wearing only pants. His strong chest shone in the late afternoon sun. He crouched, his sword at the ready. Tomoe smiled at him and he winked at her. Her heart caught. This is how she loved to see him. In his element. “You must observe,” he said to the soldiers.

  He came at Tomoe, thrusting his sword toward her. She didn’t parry but stepped forward and grabbed his arms, pushing him away from her. He lost his balance and fell to his knees.

  “You’re not trying, Yoshinaka,” a farmer called out.

  “Your turn.” Yoshinaka handed him the sword. “In fact, all of you. Come at her at once. With your rakes or whatever you have. Go ahead.”

  Tomoe braced herself, holding her sword ready. The farmers, after hesitating a moment, raced toward her, their sorry farm implements aloft. She blocked each effortlessly, careful not to stab any of them, breaking the wooden handles, shoving the men away with her foot as though they were overlarge gnats. One managed to wrest itself away.

  Yamabuki gasped.

  Yoshinaka grinned, clearly pleased with Tomoe’s efforts. “That will be all, Tomoe. Go finish the wash.”

  Tomoe wiped perspiration from her face. The farmers, shamed by a woman, sat in a semicircle around Yoshinaka, their heads hung low. “Don’t you want me to teach them what they were supposed to do?”

  “That’s my job.” Kanehira stood. “Go back to your woman’s work, Tomoe.”

  Tomoe scowled, ready to argue, but Yoshinaka had already turned his back to her. Tomoe sighed. “Come along, Yamabuki.”

  They walked back to the bank, Yamabuki behind her, unable to keep up with Tomoe’s long strides. “Why won’t they let you teach them? You are the best.” The girl’s voice was admiring.

  Tomoe did not answer.

  “They don’t like being taught by a woman,” Yamabuki guessed in her high, whispery voice. “But Yoshinaka will let you humiliate them.”

  “It is good for new soldiers to be humiliated,” Tomoe said, heading down the steep slope. “They need to be broken.” But she clenched her fists. She didn’t enjoy doing woman’s work any more than Yamabuki did. However, she supposed Chizuru didn’t enjoy the wash too much, either. It was a necessary evil.

  Tomoe stopped moving. Chizuru was already gone. “Let’s go back to the house.” She turned and Yamabuki nearly crashed into her. Tomoe put out her hands to steady the girl. “Be careful! What’s the matter with you?”

  “Sumimasen,” Yamabuki said, bowing. Tomoe saw that the girl wasn’t purposely incompetent. She was trying.

  “I am sorry, Yamabuki,” Tomoe said. “It doesn’t matter whether I am the best warrior in all of Japan. I will never be a man.”

  “But I wish I could be like you,” Yamabuki said, lifting her head. The light bounced off her skin as though it were a precious metal.

  “And what am I? Wife to no one. Captain of a ghost army, in a war that may never come.” Tomoe led the way back to the house, her gut aching with a loss that would never be filled.

  Yamabuki hurried after her. “No. Brave and energetic. Good at everything!”

  Tomoe thought of how Yoshinaka had not been to see her at night since Yamabuki arrived. But that was not the girl’s fault. “Not good at everything, apparently.”

  The girl stood in the afternoon sun, which flickered like candlelight through canopies of tree branches. “You don’t know,” she whispered. “You don’t know what you are. How special you are.”

  Tomoe mustered a smile. “Neither do you. Come. We must help my mother with the evening meal.”

  PART TWO

  A true sister is a friend who listens with her heart.

  • ANONYMOUS

  SIXTEEN

  Yamabuki Gozen

  MIYANOKOSHI FORTRESS

  SHINANO PROVINCE

  HONSHU, JAPAN

  Spring 1177

  Yamabuki used to think, when she first came here, that she might care for Tomoe the same way she did for Akemi. Who wouldn’t? Tomoe was lovely, and more so because she was unaware of it. She moved with such purpose, such confidence. People bowed as she went past, even if they didn’t know who she was. As if they sensed her superiority.

  But it did not take long for Yamabuki to think of Tomoe as a long-lost older sister. And Chizuru. Chizuru was the caring mother s
he had never had.

  Had it not been for these women, Yamabuki would have spent her days lying on the futon, staring at the ceiling. Even so, she longed to be elsewhere. Where, she could not say. Not at home. In a convent, perhaps. Or in a place existing only in her imagination, she supposed. In a place not of this world. Sometimes Yamabuki thought she was as much of an obake as Obāchan, doomed to lurk in the shadows of everyone’s hearts.

  Yamabuki would never have another Akemi. Perhaps one love was all one had in a life. But Tomoe was important, too. Her protector. Helpless, she followed her around as a duckling followed its mother. A shameful nuisance for an able-bodied woman.

  Tomoe showed Yamabuki how to cook rice, how to dip her finger in it and fill the water up to her first knuckle. The big iron pot was too heavy, and she spilled half of it. A sin, because rice was a building block of life, along with salt and water. But Tomoe did not chastise. She helped Yamabuki bear the weight of the pot.

  “Be strong,” Tomoe urged almost daily. “You must simply get used to this life.”

  “I will try,” Yamabuki answered, and Tomoe frowned.

  One April morning, while they were eating rice, Tomoe asked, “What were your parents like?”

  They were outdoors, in the shelter of a pine. Yamabuki preferred to sit inside, where she was not bothered by the tiny gnats that attacked the wetness of her eyes. The fresh air hurt her chest, made her wheeze. Dirty and freezing in the winter, dirty and perspiring in the summer.

  Yamabuki used her hashi to scoop up some rice mixed with a bit of tsukemono, pickled cabbage. Her stomach clenched with sudden nausea, and she placed the food back into her bowl. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” Tomoe said, scooping rice into her lovely mouth, red as cherries, “were they nice people? Like my parents? Were they sad to see you go? Were you sad to go?”

  Yamabuki put the hashi down, her appetite gone. She kept her gaze on the rice bowl. “They were not at all like your mother.” Yamabuki pictured Chizuru’s easy affection for her children. “My mother did not like me. She was glad to send me up here. They could find no other husband.”