He swept his hand toward her and pulled her upright. Embraced her. “I am not. My honor is in my word. He has my son as collateral. He has my word that I will not rise up against him. But he cannot control the way I run my own army in the Minamoto name.”
“Maybe I can talk to him. Maybe he can take me instead of little Yoshitaka.” Grief and disbelief swirled in Tomoe as she tried to think of a way out of this terrible contract. No crying now; she had to have a clear head. If she thought it would change Yoritomo’s mind, she, Tomoe, would go down and offer herself to Yoritomo, body and soul, in exchange for leaving little Yoshitaka alone. Yoshitaka. The son of her heart. But Yoritomo didn’t want her, except as a curiosity. Little Yoshi was what he wanted. To hold what Yoshinaka held most dear, to make Yoshinaka behave.
Yoshinaka turned away, the pain disappearing from his face as quickly as his arms did from around her. “It is done, Tomoe. Perhaps once this war is behind us, we can get him back.” His words were hollow. Both of them knew it.
TWENTY-THREE
Tomoe Gozen
MIYANOKOSHI FORTRESS
SHINANO PROVINCE
HONSHU, JAPAN
Spring 1182
Tomoe watched Cousin Yoritomo’s soldiers march into the fortress. Four carried a litter with a cabin on top, big enough to hold two or three people. These men were accompanied by a dozen more soldiers on horseback.
The men set the litter into the courtyard. A cloud of dust rose. Tomoe felt as though ice had replaced her blood. She put her hand on her sword without realizing it.
Chizuru grabbed Tomoe’s wrist. “You must be strong.”
“Of course.” Tomoe folded her hands in front of her and quelled her stomach.
Chizuru glanced at the sky. “At least the weather is kind for the journey. That we can be thankful for.”
Tomoe regarded it, too. She hoped the wind wouldn’t blow between the litter’s bamboo planks, that they had some kind of insulation. It was March, and the temperature was dry but still cold. Wind-scudded feathery clouds drifted past the fortress and ruffled Tomoe’s clothes. She knew her mother had packed several thick woolen blankets and Yoshitaka’s heavier kimonos and jackets for the boy, who had turned four only this past December, but still she did not feel reassured.
Little Yoshitaka was playing in the yard, chasing the curly-tailed orange-and-white Akita dogs and barking like them, his straight black hair flying out behind him. His feet were bare and dirty, kicking up reddish dust, his pants covered in mud; bean sauce stained his mouth. Just like his father. Tomoe watched him with a mix of love and dread. He was still young enough to be sweet and give plenty of hugs, but all boy. Her eyes filled and she bit down sharply on her tongue. Behind, his baby sister, Aoi, crawled after her brother the best she could. Sometimes Yoshitaka allowed her to catch him, making her scream with delight.
Who would be her playmate now? Nobody could replace their firstborn son.
Behind her, the door of the house slid open and she sensed Yoshinaka’s presence. Another set of footsteps—Kanehira.
“I hope you look at your son and see that trying to defeat Yoritomo is not worthwhile,” Tomoe said. If Yoshinaka had not tried the stunt by asking for land, this wouldn’t be happening. Her voice was cold. “You may be an excellent general, but you’re a horrible politician.”
Yoshinaka did not answer. He pushed past her and went into the courtyard, her brother following. Tomoe felt light-headed, sick with helpless anger. They waited.
At last the retainer Yoritomo had sent struggled out of the litter, shaking his skinny legs as though they were numb. He was better dressed than the others and wore a short black cap set upon his head. “Lord Kiso?” he called. Kiso, hillbilly of the north.
Yoshinaka grunted, but kept his expression neutral. “Hai.”
“Are they here?” Yamabuki came outdoors, shielding her eyes against the sun.
“Yes.” Tomoe held out her hand to help Yamabuki down from the porch, but Yamabuki waved her away. Instead, Tomoe put her arm around Yamabuki’s thin shoulders. “Are you well, Yamabuki-chan?”
“Of course not.” Her voice was all blades. “Why would I be?”
Tomoe watched Yoshitaka throw a stick for his dogs. If Yamabuki fell apart, he would mirror her terror. “Have courage.”
“Do not tell me to have courage, Tomoe.” Her voice rose, mocking Tomoe. “Be brave, Yamabuki. Be like the great warrior Tomoe Gozen.” Tears spilled onto Yamabuki’s cheeks. “I never ask the gods for wealth or power or to have my beauty back. All I want is to raise my children. Is this so grand? So unattainable?”
“Yamabuki.” Tomoe clutched the younger woman’s shoulder, trying to think of what to say. There were no words.
The dogs stopped their game and barked at the strangers. Yoshinaka clapped his hands twice, and the dogs fell silent. Tomoe wished she could bark, too, could have that outlet, running and screaming until her voice and body gave out.
Yamabuki stood up straight and approached the retainer. “I am Yamabuki. Know that you will answer to me if any harm comes to him.”
The retainer’s mouth twitched in amusement. Yamabuki’s hair was wild, her kimono askew. No doubt they considered Yamabuki to be the female Kiso, a good wife for the crazy Yoshinaka. The retainer humored her with a slight inclination of his head. “I will treat him as my own son during the journey.”
“Some sons are not treated so well,” Yamabuki said darkly.
Kanehira helped the soldiers load the boy’s trunk. No man spoke. How could they be like tree trunks, all solid and unfeeling? Next to Tomoe, Yamabuki trembled. Do something, Tomoe felt Yamabuki ask. Or perhaps it was her own voice in her head.
Tomoe stepped forward, her fingers closing around the hilt of her sword. The soldiers looked at her cautiously. Tomoe would hold on to Yoshitaka with her life. She would fight the men with her teeth. Until they kicked her into ashes. “Wait,” Tomoe said.
But she could not do anything. Yoritomo had thousands of men. They could not fight his army. And if they resisted now, all of their heads would be cut off. Even Yoshitaka’s.
Yamabuki held her arms out to Yoshitaka, burying her face in the boy’s shoulder. “Will you do nothing, then?” she whispered shakily to Tomoe. “The brave onnamusha?”
Tomoe swallowed, anguish fighting its way up her throat. If they fought now, a bad outcome was certain. If they waited, they at least had hope. “This is his only chance to grow into a man. Let him go and he may come back to us, or we to him.”
“What’s happening?” the little boy asked. He glanced from face to face, all of them stern and sad. “I must go alone?”
“Cousin Yoritomo is your new otōsan,” Yoshinaka answered in his sternest voice. “You must do as he and your new mother say.”
“They are exceedingly kind to their children,” the retainer piped in.
Yoshitaka’s eyes grew as big as the moon. “No Okāsan?”
Tomoe met his eyes and remembered him as a tiny baby, his head still pointed from birthing. “Yoshitaka-chan,” she said. “It is all right if you are afraid. We are all afraid.”
He screwed up his face in that way he had when he was trying not to cry and nodded mutely. Tomoe knelt. “Remember, this feeling will not last forever. But our love will.” She had to make him understand. Give him something to concentrate on. She saw a stray black thread on his dark kimono, near his chest, and touched it with her fingertips. “See this thread, near your heart?”
He nodded.
She plucked it out. “There is a thread like this that no man can see. It goes from your heart to your mother’s, and to mine. If you are afraid, pull on it.” She gave a tug in the air on her imaginary thread. “And we will be there, in your mind. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers.
“Like this?” He snapped his fingers. “I did it!”
“You did it.
” She put her arms around his sturdy body and held him. “Now you tug the thread,” she said. He tugged the air. Tomoe clutched her heart. “I felt it!”
Yoshitaka grinned. “Me, too! Did you, Okāsan?”
“I did.” Yamabuki smiled. Kanehira helped her stand.
“Yoshitaka!” Yoshinaka called. The boy leapt over to his father, his small feet scuffing the dirt into clouds. To Tomoe’s surprise, Yoshinaka bent and kissed his son’s forehead tenderly. “You will grow up to be a brave and strong man. We will meet again.”
Yamabuki turned her face into Kanehira’s shoulder and collapsed; her brother-in-law had to hold her up. Tomoe went in her stead, embracing the boy. She felt his heart skittering like a jackrabbit’s. “Good-bye, little son of my heart,” she whispered.
The retainer took Yoshitaka’s hand, led him into the litter. The last thing Tomoe saw was his smooth blue-black hair disappearing, like a dark stone falling into a well. The men picked up the poles. Tomoe did not want to watch. Yet she must. Yoshitaka’s small hand stuck out, the fingers grasping air.
“Okāsan!” he screamed. “Okāsan! Obachan!” Mother, auntie! He broke into wordless wails, like a small animal that knew it was going to be slaughtered, shrill and loud.
Yoshinaka’s stern face softened. “Wait!” He called a dog to him, the orange-and-cream one called Nariko. “Let him take his dog.” Yoshinaka bowed deeply to the man inside the litter. He handed in a bag of coins. The retainer opened the door and Yoshinaka hoisted the dog inside.
Yoshinaka caught up his son’s hand through the opening, walking beside the litter as the men carried it away, holding Yoshitaka’s tiny palm in his big, rough, hairy one. He held his son’s hand through the gate and beyond, not letting go until they reached the trees.
TWENTY-FOUR
Yamabuki Gozen
MIYANOKOSHI FORTRESS
SHINANO PROVINCE
HONSHU, JAPAN
Spring 1182
As spring began, there should have been new life, but there was not. No daffodils this year. No stream from the mountain. Only death. Twenty thousand people had died from the famine, brought on by drought. Twenty thousand, in an island country the size of Japan! It was like a tree losing all its leaves.
Yamabuki carefully carried the earthenware vessel of uncooked rice to the fire. Not a single grain could be spared, and she did not trust anyone else with it. She had learned well in these years, she thought. At least I can cook rice. No, no one could be trusted. Their rice stores were running low. Kanehira had secreted away more from the previous year’s harvest, to feed the soldiers of the army Yoshinaka continued to raise. He hid the sacks in a bunker, behind weapons, where no one except him and a few other trusted soldiers were allowed. At the time, she had thought Kanehira crazy, like a squirrel hiding nuts for winter in a land where it never snowed. Now his wisdom was apparent. Yamabuki told him so and he merely winked. “Finally, a woman recognizes my genius,” he said, without a trace of flirtation. His gaze always followed Yoshinaka, eyeing him as hungrily as her daughter eyed her rice stew. Where Kanehira ended and Yoshinaka began, Yamabuki thought, no one could tell.
This year, nobody had the rice to pay the rice tax, which did not stop the Taira from demanding it. The Taira used it to supply their warrior monks, their armies, their court officials. But the Taira in the capital could not supply all of their military, only the important members. Their Search and Punish soldiers were stationed at Mino Fortress, far away from the capital, and they all starved to death. Some Taira soldiers had joined up with the Minamoto simply so they could get fed.
Yesterday, the Buddhist priest with a bald head came here in his yellow robes and held an audience with Yoshinaka. “We are in the mappō. The end of all time,” he had proclaimed, and Chizuru burst into tears. “Everyone will perish. Be prepared.” The only thing she could think was perhaps the monk was right. Perhaps it was the end of time. It certainly felt that way to her.
Under some trees, Chizuru played with Aoi, clasping onto the child as though she were a good-luck amulet. Aoi was a merry baby. Yamabuki looked up at the sound of her daughter’s laugh, expecting to see her son next to the girl, too. Of course he wasn’t there. Like a punch to her stomach, every time. Yamabuki stared back down into the kettle, at the bubbling rice, and clamped the lid on.
Every morning, when she awoke, Yamabuki searched for her son. He used to be up before her, playing quietly as she had taught him to do when he woke up early, and he would look at her and say, “Okāchan!” Mommy. He held out his arms, and they would snuggle until she heard his small stomach grumbling, and she would get up to prepare breakfast.
Tomoe told her she had to think of the future. “Yoritomo will treat him as a son, he will marry his daughter, and you can see him again.”
She was right, Yamabuki knew. But that didn’t make her pain go away.
At least she had Aoi to concentrate on. Little Aoi was healthy. She had rolls of baby fat, put on by the wet nurse’s efforts, shining black hair, a healthy pinkish pallor. The wet nurse would never go hungry as long as Yoshinaka could scrounge up anything, even going to the sea to get dried fish from the fishermen there. “Thank goodness she didn’t get my looks,” Yoshinaka remarked soon after Aoi’s birth. Nor had the girl gotten Yamabuki’s. Strangers coming into town thought the baby belonged to Tomoe. Their pointed chins, their large earlobes (a mark of good fortune), and long slender fingers were identical.
The pot of rice stopped steaming and Yamabuki opened it again, the plump grains nicely sticky. Had it been twenty minutes already? Tomoe walked up, a bucket of water in hand. “Is the rice ready?”
Yamabuki’s stomach was so empty, she could no longer feel hunger, only a pain that had dulled to nothing. “If everyone is to perish, what point is there to fighting? We will just die faster. The Minamoto cannot make the rains come.”
“The drought will pass. And we need to have good people in power, who won’t waste our resources.” Tomoe glanced at Yamabuki. “You must have faith.” Tomoe spooned out portions of rice.
Yamabuki carried the bowl over to Chizuru. Chizuru stood up, stretching. “These old bones can’t sit like that for so long,” she said with a broad smile. How Chizuru managed to remain cheerful and optimistic no matter what, Yamabuki had no idea. But she tried her best to emulate her, even if Yamabuki did fail miserably. Chizuru walked off.
Yamabuki fed rice to her daughter, ignoring her own stomach. Yamabuki was too thin, her neck swaying about with the ungainly large head on its end, like a tree with a too-heavy top. She rubbed at the purple half-moons under her eyes. Tomoe came over and sat down.
“I hope little Yoshitaka has forgotten us.” Yamabuki poked more rice into Aoi’s mouth. The baby cooed. “It will be better if he forgets all about us. Then maybe he can live.”
“I hope so, too.”
Yamabuki thought she saw Obāchan-obake standing nearby, out of the corner of her eye. Her heart sped up. She hadn’t seen Obāchan for a long time. Perhaps she had news of her son. But when she turned, the spectre was gone.
Obāchan, she called in her mind, but the ghost did not return. She sighed loudly and Aoi burbled.
Tomoe smiled, but she caught the pain in her eyes. “How about some music after dinner? Aoi loves your singing.”
She had not played for weeks. Perhaps months, or years. She no longer cared. “I am tired.” She handed Aoi to Tomoe. “I think I will go to bed.”
“Please, Yamabuki.” Tomoe gestured to the rice. “You must eat something. It won’t be long now.”
“Later. Save me the dregs.” Yamabuki had no appetite. She couldn’t remember the last time she ate. Every so often, she put some food in her mouth when she felt faint. But not before.
Kanehira appeared. “Tomoe! Yoshinaka wants to talk to you.”
Tomoe put down her empty bowl. “Keep your strength up, little sister.” Tomoe
walked off, still so strong. As strong as ever. Just like her mother.
A pain shot up Yamabuki’s foot, up her leg. She shifted. She herself walked like an old crone. Like her obāchan-obake.
She looked at her rice bowl, set down near Aoi. Perhaps she would eat a little bit. As she reached for it, Aoi kicked upward, upsetting the bowl, sending the rice all over the ground. Mixed into the dust.
TWENTY-FIVE
Tomoe Gozen
BATTLE OF KURIKARA
ETCHŪ PROVINCE
HONSHU, JAPAN
Summer 1183
Tomoe held the round bronze mirror with steady hands, fighting her nervous pulse. A warrior stared back at her, in full battle dress. The close-fitting wrapped jacket and ankle-length pants worn under her armor, her hitatare, was fuchsia silk, embroidered in a repeating light pink depiction of the Minamoto crest: bamboo leaves fanning above a gentian flower. Over this she wore her armor, a crimson damask cover hiding the sturdy bamboo plates.
A bronze crown of intricate scrollwork served as her helmet, with long red tassels dangling near each high cheekbone. Her full lower lip and pronounced Cupid’s-bow mouth stood out crimson in her pale face.
It was mid-May, two years after their humiliating defeat with Uncle Yukiie at Sunomata. Now Yoritomo had called Yoshinaka into battle. They were to meet the Taira army near the Kurikara Pass, the journey to which would take at least a week. Yoritomo’s other armies were deployed elsewhere and the Taira wanted to get rid of Yoshinaka once and for all.
They are coming for you, read Yoritomo’s warning. Tomoe shivered, thinking of it. Yoshinaka now had about ten thousand troops, but the Taira had at least three times that many.
“You’re marching into your death,” Yamabuki had said. “Stay here with me.”
Tomoe laughed shortly. “Such an optimist. I thought your soothsaying days were over.” She thought of her mother and Aoi and Yamabuki. “I wish I could.”
Tale of the Warrior Geisha Page 16
