Tale of the Warrior Geisha

by Margaret Dilloway

  Tomoe smiled fondly at her mother. “All I smell is fish.”

  Yoshihide stood and pitched another rock into the water. “Ha. I threw that rock so hard, I bet I hit a fish.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised, Yoshi-chan.” Tomoe watched him play. He skipped a rock so it glanced against the surface three times, then four, then five. She leaned back into the warm sand as though it were a hammock, and closed her eyes, remembering sitting near another fisherman, another time.

  Water struck her forehead. The children shrieked. “Yay! A big rain!” Yoshihide danced around his mother. Thunder shook the sand, and a flash of lightning arced across the bay. Her mother had known, of course. Chizuru was already at the house, shaking her head at their thickheadedness. Aoi was pulling down the laundry as quickly as she could, flinging the clothes into a large reed basket.

  “Let’s go watch it from inside.” Tomoe took his hand. “Aoi, leave it! Run in.”

  “Tomoe!” Wada-chan beckoned them from the door of their little wooden house. Even from here, she felt the warmth of his smile. “Hurry, before the lightning gets here.” Wada’s hair was more gray than black now, and his face lean; but he was still Wada-chan. She waved to him, a lightness coming over her. Aside from her mother, he had known her longer than any other person alive.

  “Race?” Yoshihide looked at his mother with a wide grin. His adult front teeth were just beginning to grow in, pearly-white and slightly serrated.

  Tomoe got in the ready stance, on one knee, hands on the ground. “On the count of three. One, two . . .”

  “You can’t catch me!” Aoi slipped past them, the heavy laundry basket of wet clothes tilting precariously on her head. Yoshihide took off after her, shouting.

  Tomoe paused, her fingertips in the sand. The humid, warm wind blew hard across the bay, sending up plumes of mist, taking the storm away as quickly as it had come. She ran inside.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  One day a few years ago, I was at my father’s house with one of my brothers, talking to our father about our mother. Dad said, out of nowhere, “You know, your mother was from a samurai family.” My brother and I looked at each other. No, we didn’t know that.

  My mother had told us her family, the Makino clan, was the bearer of the royal seal for the emperor, or something like that. Our noble blood was important, she told us—be proud.

  But we didn’t know of the samurai connection.

  Intrigued, I wondered if there had ever been such a thing as a female samurai. Indeed, there were. Called onnamusha or onnabugeisha, these women trained in the art of war. Most did so to protect their homes while the men were away fighting, but a few—like Empress Jinju and Tomoe Gozen—were said to be as good as or better than any male warrior.

  I began researching Tomoe Gozen. Said to be beautiful and skillful, she is almost portrayed as a superhero in The Tale of the Heike, able to rip out trees from the ground and the like. I was smitten.

  I then happened to look up my mother’s clan, the Makino, and found that they were an offshoot of the Minamoto clan, datable to the fifteenth century. Now I knew I had to write about Tomoe, a woman associated with my distant ancestors.

  I also researched her lover, the samurai she was associated with, Yoshinaka Minamoto. Most texts dismiss him as that “crazy hillbilly of the North,” a man who basically got himself declared shōgun under duress. But Yoshinaka struck me as a tragic hero on a par with any of Shakespeare’s: misunderstood, betrayed over and over again by his own family, a terrible politician but a brilliant military tactician who won many battles he really should have lost. I wanted to show a more complete picture of Yoshinaka.

  At the same time, I wondered what Tomoe and Yoshinaka’s relationship would have been like, and imagined what a powerful bond they must have had, as lovers protecting each other’s life during war.

  I wondered, too, how Tomoe must have felt as the concubine and not the wife of Yoshinaka. For Tomoe would have been Yamabuki’s lady-in-waiting. Would they have been friends? Enemies? Little is known about Tomoe Gozen—some historians believe that she did not exist and that she was made up in The Tale of the Heike to discredit Yoshinaka. Others believe that she did exist. Even less is known about Yamabuki.

  As I focused on the women’s story, it became apparent that some alterations to the historical facts were necessary for the sake of this novel. So, while I attempted to keep as much of the timeline and historical figures’ lives as accurate as possible, some events are compressed or left out, and some people’s lives are slightly changed.

  For example, I did not include the siege of Hiuchi, a different fort where Yoshinaka lived, or the battle of Shinowara, the battle of Mizushima, or the siege of Fukuryūji. The battle of Shinowara was actually where Sanemori Saito was discovered by Yoshinaka.

  Yoshinori Wada did not train with Yoshinaka and Tomoe, although Wada did end up with Tomoe after Yoshinaka’s death. Yoshinaka also had another concubine, named Aoi; I acknowledged her by naming Yamabuki’s daughter after her. There were many more Minamoto who are not mentioned.

  Thanks to Randy Schadel, scholar at the Samurai Archives website, and his wife, Dr. Ayame Chiba, also at the Archives, for reading a draft of this text and providing suggestions and corrections to many minute details. Any errors are mine.

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  Farris, William Wayne. Japan’s Medieval Population: Famine, Fertility, and Warfare in a Transformative Age. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2006.

  Joly, Henri L. Legend in Japanese Art: A Description of Historical Episodes, Legendary Characters, Folk-lore, Myths, Religious Symbolism, Illustrated in the Arts of Old Japan. London: John Lane, 1908. See especially p. 374.

  Mason, R. H. P., and J. G. Caiger. A History of Japan. Revised edition. Rutland, VT: C. E. Tuttle, 1997.

  Ruch, Barbara. “Unheeded Voices, Winked-at Lives: Shamans.” In Kozo Yamamura and John Whitney Hall, eds., The Cambridge History of Japan, vol. 3, Medieval Japan, pp. 521–540. Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press, 1990.

  The Samurai Archives. “Minamoto Clan.” http://wiki.samurai-archives.com/index.php?title=Minamoto_clan. Consulted October 2013.

  Shikibu, Murasaki. The Tale of Genji (1021). Translated by Royall Tyler. New York: Viking, 2001.

  The Tale of the Heike. Translated by Royall Tyler. New York: Viking, 2012.

  The Tales of the Heike. Translated by Burton Watson. Edited by Haruo Shirane. New York: Columbia University Press, 2006.

  Turnbull, Stephen R. The Book of the Samurai, the Warrior Class of Japan. New York: Arco, 1982.

  ———. The Samurai Sourcebook. London: Arms and Armour Press, 1998.

  ———. The Samurai Swordsman: Master of War. North Clarendon, VT: Charles E. Tuttle, 2008.

  ———. Samurai Women, 1184–1877. Oxford and Long Island City: Osprey, 2010.

  Keep reading for a preview of Margaret Dilloway’s companion novel to TALE OF THE WARRIOR GEISHA:

  SISTERS OF HEART AND SNOW

  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, were 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.

  Behind her, Yamabuki’s dark eyes shone like wet pearls. If Tomoe’s skin could be called pale, then Yamabuki’s was white, luminescent as sea life in the deepest waters. Yamabuki’s hair was black, too, but shot through with silver and white strands.

  Yamabuki worked t
hrough Tomoe’s thick long hair with a tortoiseshell comb and fragrant camellia oil, her small hands working quickly to undo the knots. “There. You are ready, my captain. Your hair is so well oiled, a typhoon cannot disturb it.”

  Tomoe’s throat went dry. Yamabuki had begun as her rival, but soon she found that she needed Yamabuki as much as Yamabuki needed her. Tomoe the warrior, Yamabuki the poet. The strong and the gentle. Two sides of one coin. Now she could no more imagine her world without Yamabuki than she could imagine cutting off her own arm.

  Yamabuki blinked rapidly and Tomoe grasped the other woman’s hand. “And you? Are you prepared?”

  “As ready as I need to be. What can I do? Offer the enemy some tea? Play him some music?” Yamabuki stood and retrieved Tomoe’s short sword from the corner. The tiny woman staggered under its weight. Tomoe watched her, knowing Yamabuki would refuse any offers of help. “I do not understand how you can carry this, much less fight with it.”

  Tomoe took the sword. Their fingers touched. Tomoe’s insides seized, and she took a deep breath to steady herself. “I should stay here and protect you.”

  “No.” Yamabuki retrieved the quiver of arrows and bow next. “You must go.” For a moment, she looked again like the girl she had been on her arrival. A wobbly newborn chick finding its way among piebald eagles. “I will be all right.”

  There was a saying for a dear female friend you held as close as a relative. Sister of heart.

  Unlike Yamabuki, Tomoe had never been good at putting what she felt into words. Instead, she retrieved her naginata, a small sword attached to a long pole, from its place in the corner of the room. With a bow, she presented it to Yamabuki. The woman didn’t move. “Take it.” How Tomoe wished Yamabuki would heft up the naginata and arc it through the air with a shout. Stab at something. But the woman could barely wrap her tiny fingers around the pole.

  “Arigato.” Yamabuki inclined her head toward Tomoe, and laid the naginata carefully on the floor. “And I have something for you,” Yamabuki added, reaching into her pocket. It was a piece of braided red cord, hung on bright blue fabric. A good-luck amulet. “An omamori. To protect you.”

  Outside, the army chanted for her. “Tomoe, Tomoe!” The drums and horns sounded and the men stomped their feet on the ground, banging swords against metal. Tomoe felt the vibrations in her eardrums, in her heart.

  Yamabuki took a step back and bowed deeply. Tomoe bowed in return. Both filled with unspoken words that would always remain so.

  One

  SAN DIEGO

  Present Day

  People in my family are pathologically incapable of asking anyone for help. It’s probably the only tradition we have. Call it pride or stubbornness or fear of rejection, even—each of us is our own island. No matter what anybody’s going through, we pretend everything’s fine, just fine, thanks for asking, and we soldier on.

  Take my mother. My mother never asked me or my sister for anything. Not for help with the dishes or cooking. Not for a Christmas or birthday present. Not even for a simple hug.

  But I always believed that my mother had deeper needs. Wants she would not out loud, even when she could still communicate. Maybe even desires I was afraid to ask her about, in case I couldn’t help her.

  Except for today. Today she broke through her cocoon and, finally, now of all times, asked.

  I’ll do anything I can to help her. I wish she’d always known that.

  I put my hands on top of each other, palms down, and rock the soles of my feet back and forth into the smooth concrete pool deck. Goggles and earplugs and nose plugs and swim cap and plain black Speedo racerback swimsuit all in place.

  You wouldn’t know it, but there was once a day when I could have handily beat every single person standing on the pool deck next to me. That sleek woman to my right. The barrel-chested old man in the unfortunate Speedo to my left. Even the twenty-year-old man already kicking through the water. In fact, there’s still a plaque in the La Jolla High gym that bears my name. Rachel Snow, 100-Meter Freestyle record. Still unbroken, says a handwritten note below it. That was who I used to be. Unbroken.

  The noon sun covers me in a prickly blanket. It’s October, and still oven-warm here in San Diego. Only a few people are in the public pool in the middle of the weekday, parents splashing in the shallow end with their toddlers. Later, it’ll be filled with water polo teams and after-school swim clubs.

  Usually swimming clears my head, but not today. My brain turns over and over what happened this morning, when I visited my mother in the nursing home. I shake my shoulders loose, take a deep breath in. One, two, three. I release it, take another, stare at the shimmering blue-white water. Yes, there it is. That particular ache I get whenever I think about Mom.

  We had a good visit today. Not because my mother knew who I was, but because we had a nice time together. Being quiet. Looking at foam on the waves and cloud formations in the sky. This was a beautiful facility, situated as it is right by the Pacific, and its expense matches its views—and my father can afford it without a single sacrifice.

  My mother and I ate ginger and lemon crème cookies, dipping them into our decaf black tea. She ate a whole sleeve. Probably not on her approved diet list, but really, if I were in my mom’s situation, I’d be eating a daily pound of See’s. You might as well enjoy the time you have left. The truth is, she’s never going to get better.

  After we finished our snack, Mom continued staring out the window. I sat in another slipcovered armchair next to hers.

  Mom’s coarse black hair, white at the roots, was standing up, and I reached over to smooth it down. “Hikari Sato.” My voice was so loud I hurt my own ears. Most of the time, people ask me to repeat myself. Mom didn’t turn at the sound of her name. I wondered what she was thinking about. If she remembered her husband, my father.

  I haven’t seen or talked to him since I was sixteen. I’d become a problem child, breaking the rules, acting the wrong way, and my father had abruptly told me to get out, forbade my mother from seeing me. I’ve heard, since then, of other parents doing the same for various reasons—often because they disapprove of their child’s partner or lifestyle or sexual orientation. Some people have an unshakable internal morality. As far as he’s concerned, he has only one daughter now, Drew. I’m not sure I’ll ever talk to him again. If you can say anything about Killian Snow, it’s that he will never give up.

  “Hey.” Mom took my hand in her paper-dry one. “Look out there.” She pointed to the parking lot below, where a man shimmied out of his wetsuit, his surfboard leaning against the open trunk of his sedan, having finished some morning surfing. His broad shoulders glistened with salt water. “Check out that surfer. He’s changing. I can see everything. Back and front.” She giggled, a throaty, mischievous sound, then leaned over and rapped on the window. “Woo!” she shouted like a teenager, and he looked up, searching for the source. “That cold water didn’t hurt him any.”

  “Mom!” I giggled, too, my laugh echoing hers perfectly. A flush rose up my neck. The man waved, believing it was me yelling, not the tiny innocent-looking Japanese woman sitting next to me. Oh well. I leaned back out of sight and checked the time. “I have to go, okay?” I stand, kiss the top of her head. “I’ll see you next week.”

  “Wait.” Mom grabbed my upper arm, hyperalert. Wrinkles suddenly cracked across her face like riverbeds on a relief map, cutting across the high mountains of her cheekbones. “Wait, wait.” She yanked with sudden Hulk-like strength on my arm, and I sat right back down.

  Mom wanted something.

  I gently pried her hand off my arm, no small feat. “What is it, Mom? What do you need?” I thought perhaps she’d ask me for a box of her favorite cookies, Mallomars, or maybe even tell me to bring my twenty-year-old daughter, Quincy, and my fourteen-year-old son, Chase, around next time.

  Her mouth opened, forming words I couldn’t catch, her voice ra
spy and low. Like she couldn’t quite expel the syllables hard enough.

  “Say it again.” I leaned closer, trying to make out her meaning.

  Mom cupped my chin with her hand. “Rachel.” Her eyes met mine, purposefully now, not with the usual randomness, as if my eyes were another piece of furniture in the room. “Rachel, Rachel.”

  Mom was back. If only for a moment.

  “Mom?” I leaned forward, my mouth going dry. “What is it you need? Tell me. I’ll help you.” Tell me. Make up for all the other times you didn’t ask. Or when I couldn’t help.

  Mom took a gigantic gulp of air, as if she’d been diving hundreds of feet under water. “Hon, hon,” she whispered in Japanese.

  I didn’t speak the language. “Hon?” I whispered back, though I wasn’t sure why we were whispering. We were all alone in the calm, white room. The plastic vertical blinds rattled in the breeze. Mom blinked and screwed up her face like she’s tasted something sour. “Sewing room,” she said finally, with tremendous effort, in English. “Drew knows. Drew will help.”

  My little sister. Not that she’s been little for a long time. Younger, I corrected myself. I will always be younger than you, Drew liked to say. “What does hon mean, Mom?”

  Mom took her hand out of mine and stared back out the window, at the ocean waves pounding. Another car pulled into the surfer’s vacated spot. I bent into her face, searched her gaze for a sign she knew me. But it was like looking at the blank dark screen of a laptop. Only my own reflection.

  —

  Now I hesitate on the pool deck, straighten, crack my shoulder and stretch it out, considering my mother’s request. Small pins of pain shoot up across my back, to my spine. Hon. I had looked up the word. Hon means “book.”