Tale of the Warrior Geisha

by Margaret Dilloway

  She remembered her father Kaneto’s voice. “You must watch over Yoshinaka,” he had said. She had to stay.

  Besides, she could not simply go to Kantō alone and begin a new life. They would be beggars or prostitutes without a male family member to protect them. She exhaled.

  Another Taira man stepped forward. He wore armor covered with bits of metal that shone in the sun. Tomoe had never seen armor like it. She wished she could step forward and inspect it. “I challenge. But I want your best archer. Not Kanehira. His sister.” His bold eyes met Tomoe’s.

  Men on both sides tittered.

  She stared back at him. Did he think she would lower her head as if she were not an onnamusha? The sounds of the cheering men faded. Her vision went black around the edges. She would not avert her gaze.

  “You dishonor yourself!” Kanehira called. “No real samurai would duel with a woman.”

  The other samurai curled back his lip, at last looking away for the excuse of directing his eyes toward Kanehira. “I merely want to see if she’s as good as they say she is. A yabusame match, of course. Since she is a woman.”

  Ha. For yabusame matches, you shot at targets as you rode by. Tomoe said nothing. Her face remained still, though she wanted to grin. She mounted Cherry Blossom and sent her in a gallop through the crowd, as lightly as a rabbit.

  A strident, pleased roar went up from the Minamoto. The Taira grumbled but would not directly challenge this samurai’s decision.

  The samurai’s round face went red. He mounted his own horse, a brown and white mare. “I only hope your mother remains alive so she can feel my pleasure when we take over your pitiful fortress.”

  The Minamoto side gasped. Tomoe felt her brother’s and Yoshinaka’s fury. His words were hollow.

  She took an arrow out of her quiver, examining its perfect straight line, and placed it near her bow. “I accept your challenge. I only pray that your mother is dead, so she won’t hear of her son’s shameful defeat by a woman.”

  The Minamoto cheered. Yoshinaka spoke up. “I know the perfect place for this battle,” he said with a smile. “To test your courage,” the general added softly.

  Quickly, the two factions set up targets on both sides of the narrowest part of the pass, over the ravine. If Cherry Blossom made one false step, or if the other horse ran into them, they would all tumble over. They would run their horses past each other, Tomoe shooting arrows to the right, the other man to the left. Whoever got to the finish line first, having struck the most bull’s-eyes, would win.

  Yoshinaka would not meet her gaze.

  She would not ask them to move the venue. It would show her as weak. But she got some satisfaction from the way the color drained out of her opponent’s face when he saw what they were doing. Because no one had brought along practice targets, the men volunteered or found various objects: logs, folded banners, knapsacks, all set in increments along the pass.

  Cherry Blossom neighed and stomped her feet in reaction to Tomoe’s energy. They were downhill, the other challenger uphill. The blood pounded in Tomoe’s ears, and she touched her omamori again for luck. She glanced toward Yoshinaka and Kanehira, standing next to each other. Kanehira gave her a sharp nod and her nervousness dissipated.

  “Go!” someone yelled.

  She took off, pressing her heels and leaning forward for Cherry Blossom to understand she had to run full-out. Cherry Blossom’s hooves barely grazed the ground. The targets whizzed by her eyes faster than she could blink. Banner. Log. Knapsack. Her hands moved of their own accord, so quick she was no more aware of them than she was of her breathing. They climbed uphill. The brown and white horse galloped past her downhill, close enough for her to feel its warmth, to be hit by its foaming spit. Past the edge she saw the long fall into nothingness that awaited her. Do not falter.

  Up the pass hill, she slowed just past the finish line, in among the Taira soldiers. The other man was still moving downhill.

  The crowd cheered. Kanehira shouted. “She got all of them!” She looked. Every one of her objects had an arrow sticking in it, dead center.

  “I guess I am as good as you heard.” She took off her helmet, shaking her hair free of her perspiring scalp. The defeated samurai looked up at her in awe, shame rushing over his face. His soldiers jeered at him as he slunk into the midst, swallowed up.

  The Minamoto horn sounded.

  A roar went up far ahead of her. The ten squads had arrived at the Taira’s rear, from the other side of the pass. Yoshinaka had sent them around and up the pass to surprise the Taira from behind. Now the Minamoto were cutting down the soldiers as easily as one would chop wood.

  The Taira scrambled to battle-readiness, but they were so taken off guard, so involved in the archery tournament, that it was useless. One on a horse galloped at her, his sword whipping viciously through the air. Tomoe had just enough time to unsheathe her sword and block him with a clang that nearly knocked her off Cherry Blossom. She swung, aiming for the vulnerable part of his armor, where the helmet connected to the neck, up and under. She made contact and he fell off his horse.

  More attacked. She fought them off, making her way to join the Minamoto forces. Most of these farmer-soldiers had only rudimentary armor; it sliced effortlessly. A head, freed of its body, thumped against her thigh, a long hot trail of blood soaking through her pants. She gritted her teeth, breathing through her nose. It smelled of sour sake and blood, of fear.

  She closed her mind to the horror and concentrated on navigating Cherry Blossom past the ravine. A man came at her and she shoved him with her foot, sending him screaming over the edge, down onto the sharp rocks. Despite their advantage from the surprise, there were still far too many Taira for them to defeat. Yoshinaka and the men who had been in the archery tournament would be crushed in the middle.

  Different yelling sounded from the front, down the pass. She glanced behind her. She saw the Minamoto banners waving above the Taira, from the three units that had been at the foot of the pass. Good. They had come.

  But something else was happening below her. The ground shook. The battle paused, watching.

  A herd of oxen charged in from the valley, flaming torches tied to their horns. The Taira, surprised on the narrowest part of the path, automatically leaped out of the way, to their deaths. A few tried stabbing at the oxen, but the oxen were maddened from the torches and stampeding blindly. One Taira caught on fire entirely, his hair and clothing bursting aflame, and, panicked, ran down the hill past Tomoe. Bits of charred skin whipped past her face. Cherry Blossom shied away. It smelled like rotting eggs, like sweet and foul, spoiled sewage. Tomoe would have retched if there was time.

  Before she knew it, Tomoe was back in the valley, only a hundred or so Taira left, and suddenly Tomoe was fighting no one. She breathed heavily, her armor covered in red and black and brown muck. Cherry Blossom stumbled. She looked around at the bodies dotting the landscape like so many rocks. At last, across the field, she spotted Yoshinaka and the Minamoto banner and began toward him.

  Yoshinaka shouted. He, too, was covered in muck, but had a manic energy Tomoe lacked. “Surrender and come to my side, or be killed.”

  Tomoe watched. Her brother repeated Yoshinaka’s words.

  The Taira threw down their weapons and slowly, one by one, sank to their knees.

  Then, a heavy silence.

  They had won.

  Tomoe waited to feel victorious. She felt only a heavy sadness, the feeling that she was in a long, hazy dream. Tomoe took off her helmet and got off Cherry Blossom. The sun went low behind the mountains. Softness touched her cheeks. Raindrops. She lifted her face to the sky. A low rumble greeted her. Rain!

  “Rain!” Kanehira shouted, a wide grin stretching his face. “This is truly a sign from the gods we are the righteous victors.”

  Tomoe looked at Yoshinaka. He had been right, and she had been wrong. H
e laughed, the sound deep as thunder itself.

  The sky opened then, dumping cold buckets on them. Kanehira, Tomoe, and Cherry Blossom picked their way through the field of broken men, looking for signs of life, of low moans. The disappearing sun and the rain made it hard to see. This was nothing like killing the deer. These men did not go quietly. They thrashed and prayed and called out for their wives, their mothers. Hands clutched at invisible objects. Those close to death, they helped along with their swords. Those with wounds, they bandaged and helped. There were not many who would recover.

  Tomoe began walking among the wounded, searching for those she could help. Those had they could not. She bandaged wounds and set broken bones as the injured rasped out their new, undying support for the Minamoto clan.

  An old man lay on his back, his feet and arms splayed limply, like a crushed doll’s. He caught Tomoe’s attention because, although his face was deeply creased and liver-spotted, his hair was a curious jet-black. An inky black substance ran over his cheeks and forehead.

  “Yoshinaka!” Tomoe gestured at Yoshinaka. “Come and see this one.”

  Yoshinaka squatted down next to her, squinting. “An old man? What is he doing in battle?”

  The old man had dyed his hair to look younger, she realized, so that the enemy would treat him as an equal. To do otherwise would lead to dishonor. “Who are you?” Tomoe shook him gently. “Tell me. Let me help.”

  “A woman on the battlefield? It must be Tomoe Gozen.” The old man opened his eyes. They were so opaque with cataracts that Tomoe wondered how he could see at all. He smiled toothlessly. “I am Sanemori Saito. I have something to tell you.”

  Sanemori Saito. Though she had not heard the name for many years, she recognized it instantly. She looked up at Yoshinaka, whose mouth was wide open. This was the samurai who had rescued Yoshinaka as an infant, bringing him to live with Tomoe’s family. She did not remember that day, of course; she was too young. But Kaneto had talked of him often. “This is Yoshinaka!” Yoshinaka appeared too stunned to speak, so Tomoe continued. “This is the big man you saved as a baby. We owe you our gratitude!”

  Sanemori closed his eyes. “Yoshinaka. I must tell you. Your cousin Yoritomo will betray you just as his father betrayed your father.”

  “What?” Yoshinaka leaned closer.

  “It was your uncle who killed your father, Yoshinaka. Not the Taira. Your own family stole your father’s title and land. Kaneto did not want you to grow up with vengeance on your mind, but that was the wrong thing to do. We should have told you. You must not trust your cousin. You must be the new leader of the Minamoto.” The man coughed, struggling to speak through his agony. Tomoe gently wiped at his face. “Or they will kill you for certain.”

  Sanemori went still. Yoshinaka lowered the man’s body to the earth. Tomoe watched him. His uncle had killed his father? The Minamoto had betrayed them more than she knew. Had her father known? Still, he had said nothing. Yoshinaka rose and walked off, disappearing among the dead.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Tomoe Gozen

  SHINOWARA TOWN

  KAGA PROVINCE

  HONSHU, JAPAN

  Fall 1183

  Perhaps this will be a new beginning,” Yamabuki said from her bedroll. She and Aoi were supposed to be napping. Yamabuki’s third pregnancy had taken its toll. It was late November, the baby coming next month, and Tomoe thought—as always—that Yamabuki needed to eat more. Yamabuki’s face was thin and tired. She wore an old kimono of Yoshinaka’s, baggy and stained. There was little resemblance to the girl she had been when she arrived.

  They had moved out of Miyanokoshi to Shinowara Town, right after the victory at Kurikara. There were no memories of Yoshitaka here. And it was closer to Miyako, the capital. Only a few days instead of weeks.

  “We will finish off the Taira, and everything will go back to normal,” Yamabuki said. “Cousin Yoritomo will make Yoshinaka a lord, and we will get little Yoshitaka back.”

  Yamabuki moved her legs restlessly. “I want to get up. There are chores to do.”

  “No. You rest.” Tomoe examined the woman’s appearance with concern. Yamabuki grimaced as she turned over. “Remember when you couldn’t even wash a kimono?” Tomoe said abruptly, hoping to distract Yamabuki from her pains.

  Yamabuki nodded. “How far I’ve come.”

  “And you have been blessed with children,” Chizuru said, entering the house with a jug of water in her liver-spotted hand. “You have enough children for both you and Tomoe.”

  Tomoe frowned. Her mother should not speak like that. But Yamabuki laughed. “If only Tomoe could carry this child for me. I’m sure she wouldn’t have to stop riding horseback or fighting. I’m afraid I’m not made for these burdens.” She lifted a leg. “Look at my ankles.”

  Tomoe and Chizuru gasped. Yamabuki’s ankles were swollen to twice their size, laced with bulging blue veins. Even her toes were swollen, like daikon roots. She couldn’t bend them. Clucking, Chizuru rolled up a blanket and tucked it under Yamabuki’s feet. “No more chores for you until after the baby,” she said sternly. “Keep your feet elevated.”

  Yamabuki struggled to sit up. “I will not allow these ailments to trouble me.”

  Despite her outwardly weak nature, Yamabuki could be very stubborn. But she needed bedrest. All of them had seen pregnancies where swollen ankles led to swollen limbs, sweating, a high pulse, and a terrible headache. The woman and baby both died.

  “There are times when being strong means you must accept your weakness.” Tomoe put her hand on Yamabuki’s forehead. She had a fever. Tomoe and her mother exchanged a concerned look.

  This life was too difficult for poor Yamabuki.

  Yamabuki’s face softened. “I hope one day I can watch over you as you have me.”

  From outside, loud men’s laughter rang out. Yamabuki sighed. “I wish they would be quiet. All they do now is drink.”

  Tomoe’s stomach knotted. “I’ll speak to them.”

  She left the house. A campfire crackled in a stone circle in the clearing. Yoshinaka, Kanehira, and about twenty other men sat around the flames, drinking.

  Yoshinaka looked a wreck. He was bloated from drink and fatty food. He wore pants and a kimono jacket in material too light for the cold weather, the ends of the pants caked in mud. His hair was filthy and matted, and Tomoe could smell him from yards away. He raised his sake cup in salute.

  “Tomoe! About time. Guess what? Yukiie lost Muroyama.” His tone was gleeful. He stood and waved his clay sake cup. “I am the best general the Minamoto have! A toast. To me. The only one who can win.”

  “Kanpai!” the soldiers shouted.

  Yoshinaka took another swig of sake. “I will show him what poor old Cousin Kiso can do and avenge my father.”

  “To Yoshinaka, our new shōgun!” Kanehira cried.

  Yoshinaka turned with a smile. “That is right, Kanehira. The Taira have abandoned Miyako and taken the child-emperor with them. This means the retired emperor is the acting emperor again. If we go to Miyako before cousin Yoritomo and receive the emperor’s blessing, I will become shōgun!”

  “You cannot hold off the entire Minamoto army and the Taira. You’ll lose.” Tomoe planted her feet. Somebody had to tell Yoshinaka the truth, and it seemed it would be her.

  Yoshinaka scowled. His hand tightened visibly around his sake cup. “When I’m shōgun, my cousin Yoritomo will do as I say.”

  “No. He’ll kill you and take over. And then he’ll kill your only son.” She tasted copper in her mouth, rising from her throat. If this threat did not reach Yoshinaka, nothing would.

  The men went still. They looked from Tomoe to Yoshinaka. Yoshinaka appeared to be holding his breath, his face turning a peculiar combination of red and blue. “I will have the support of the emperor,” Yoshinaka said in his deepest voice. “If Yoritomo kills Yoshitaka, I as s
hōgun will have the authority to execute him.”

  Tomoe stepped closer to Yoshinaka. “You bluster and bluster, but you will not take good advice when it is shoved in your face! I say we stay here, show cousin Yoritomo that you are trustworthy.” She looked around at the gathering, at the houses beyond. “Join forces with him and conquer the Taira for good.”

  Yoshinaka put his face next to Tomoe’s, his hot and sour breath on her. She scanned his face for traces of the old Yoshinaka, her Yoshinaka. His swollen eyes that had once been more familiar than her own seemed to look at her without recognition. She shivered.

  Tomoe took a breath in and tilted her head up. “Be reasonable,” she whispered, so close that her lips brushed the coarse hair of his beard.

  Yoshinaka didn’t blink. “I want blood. I want revenge. It is all or nothing.”

  Tomoe heard her heartbeat pound in her ears. The revelations of his old retainer after Kurikara, coupled with the taking of his son, had propelled him into some wild territory from which he, the real Yoshinaka, was unrecoverable. The beast Yoshinaka stood in his place, like some shape-shifting obake monster out of Japanese legend.

  “Revenge will not solve your problems,” Tomoe said. “If we wait and cooperate, we can see little Yoshitaka again. Remember that.”

  Yoshinaka walked away. She hoped he was going to the house to sleep off his hangover, but instead he turned suddenly, pitching his clay sake cup at her. Tomoe deflected the blow with her forearms. The cup bounced with a sound like sword hitting bone, and it stung as badly as the stick Yoshinaka had hit her with when they were small.

  “Your father should have told me!” he shouted. “He should have told me the truth about my cousins, instead of letting me think the Taira were the real enemy! Yoritomo will kill me now or kill me a year from now. It makes no difference. He will never trust me. With good reason! I will kill him and all his followers!”

  Tomoe rubbed her forearm. Heat exploded over her, inside her. “My father wanted to protect you from exactly this type of craziness.”