Sisters of Heart and Snow

by Margaret Dilloway

  Yoritomo was taking little Yoshitaka as collateral.

  If Yoshinaka was to try to take over, little Yoshitaka would be killed. If Yoshinaka behaved, then Yoshitaka might have a chance.

  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. It is before the frosts. 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 October, and the temperature had begun its inexorable drop. 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, 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 six years old, 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 little sister, Aoi, chased her brother the best she could on her chubby short legs. Sometimes Yoshitaka allowed her to catch him, making her scream with delight.

  Who would be her playmate now? The new baby coming, Tomoe supposed. But 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 with promising 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 Yamabuki’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 plead. 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, at least they 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 otosan,” 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 Okasan?”

  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, Okasan?”

  “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.

  “Okasan!” he screamed. “Okasan! Obasan!” Mother, auntie! He broke i
nto wordless wails, like a small animal who 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.

  Eighteen

  SAN DIEGO

  Present Day

  Early the following afternoon, I sit in my kitchen drinking a cup of coffee that I’ve rewarmed. It’s slightly disgusting, but I’m too lazy to make a fresh pot. I dip a shortbread cookie one of the kids had baked and rejected for being a little too well done. The bake sale, held last week, was a success, netting almost three hundred dollars. I did not dance around and yell In your face! at Elizabeth, though I sort of wanted to.

  This morning I visited my mother again, hoping, as I always do, for another moment of sentience. “Drew’s gone home, Mom,” I’d said to her softly, but my mother continued to sleep, never opening her eyes once, her breakfast untouched on the tray table.

  Now I’m trying to keep my mind off my sister. It’s impossible—I’ve just stripped the sheets off the guest room bed, and the smell of the fruity apple shampoo she uses still clings to them. She left a hairbrush here, too, the bristles embedded with her hair.

  I put my head on the cold granite, staring at my mug. “#1 Mom,” it says, emblazoned with tiny handprints from both of my children. Made for Mother’s Day when they were little. I turn the mug so I can’t see the words.

  My phone rings, vibrates so hard it almost falls off the counter. Quincy. I grab for it, sloshing coffee. “Q!”

  “Hi, Mom.” There’s a lot of static, as if she’s very far away. “How are you?”

  I adjust the phone, trying to hear her better. “Good, honey.” Please tell me you’re going to get back in school, I think at her. “How are you doing?”

  She sucks in a breath. “Mom. I wanted to say that I’m really sorry about how I acted.”

  “Oh, honey. It’s all right. We needed time to cool off.” I smile into the phone. My reflection moves in the stainless-steel refrigerator. I fix my hair needlessly. “Are you ready to talk? Did you move out of the dorm? Where are you living?”

  “Well. That’s the thing.” On her end, a car honks and music plays faintly. “I’m calling to tell you that you were right about the whole wedding. I really do plan to go back to school. I just don’t care about it right now.”

  “Okay.” She’s working up to something.

  “So. I’m making it really simple. Like so simple you don’t have to worry about anything. And we’ll get benefits right away.”

  “Quincy, just tell her.” A male voice. Ryan.

  Quincy clears her throat, coughs, clears it again. “Mom, I wanted to let you know. Ryan and I are on our way to Vegas.”

  I blink and my brain can’t catch up to what she’s saying. So I say something dumb. “You’re not twenty-one until next year. What are you going to do there?”

  She makes a funny noise in her throat—to me it sounds like holding back tears. “We’re getting married tomorrow, Mother. I thought it would make everything easier on everyone. To have it settled.”

  I can’t speak. Vegas marriage? Quincy? Thoughts of Tom walking her down the aisle in a white dress, in front of her family and friends, poofs away. “I don’t understand.”

  “You know Vegas, right? You can get married there really fast.” She gets sarcastic when she’s nervous.

  “Q, wait.” I stand up and pace. Think. I have to think of a plan. Quincy can’t elope. She just can’t. “You caught me off guard is all.” I put my hand on my hot forehead. “Wow. This is big news.” What should I do? What will stop her? “I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting it.” I switch my phone to my other ear, my sweat clouding its surface. “I guess that will cut down on wedding costs by a long shot.”

  She laughs. “Right.”

  She tells me they’re going to the Little White Chapel, off the strip by Circus Circus. That they’re only by Barstow. “Love you, too. Man, she took that better than I thought,” I hear Quincy say as she hangs up.

  I press End and put the phone down. What should I do? Automatically I think of calling my husband.

  Conventional wisdom would be for me to do nothing. Let Quincy make her own mistakes. I’m sure that’s what Tom will say. That hasn’t worked. It’s simply not in Quincy’s best interests.

  I think of Tomoe Gozen. Of her going into battle. All or nothing. Committed.

  I finish the cookie and go upstairs.

  • • •

  Drew writes all day. Sometimes she plays a few bars on her viola, too, as the melody takes shape in her head. This is a new way for her to work, she thinks. The rest of the band was always telling her what to do. It was a group effort.

  Finally, she has to stop, because her fingers ache. She stretches them and gets a drink of water. Her foot is numb, too.

  She yawns and looks at her lyrics. As always, she can’t tell if they’re good or not. Not yet. They have to sit for a while. But the important thing is, this heaviness on her is starting to let up a little bit. Cobwebs clearing. Her brain’s waking up.

  Outside the studio, traffic blares by. A motorcycle revs and stops. The ceiling shakes as the people upstairs walk around.

  A knock on the door. Maybe a neighbor telling her to take care of the mail because her box is full—Drew forgot to have it held or forwarded. She opens the door.

  Jonah stands outside. Drew takes a step back, shocked. He looks good—better than she remembered. Tall and rangy, his dark curly hair in need of a trim. Drew used to remind him to do that. He must be in between girlfriends. He’s wearing mirrored aviator sunglasses. “Hey,” she says, feigning casualness. She leans against the doorframe. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “Hey.” He shifts from foot to foot. Jonah isn’t used to doing the asking. The pursuing. Even at smaller venues, dive bars and county fairs, there were girls lining up to see him after the show. He holds up a sheaf of mail. “You didn’t collect this.”

  Drew narrows her eyes in mock distress. “Surely you’ve got better things to do than stalk me and collect my mail.” She takes the mail. Mostly junk.

  He laughs, glances down, back up at her. “Maybe I don’t.”

  She gestures. “Come on in.”

  He comes inside and takes off his sunglasses, his so-blue eyes lined with black lashes making her stomach flutter. Just a little. A tiny bit. His eyes are puffy, which means he drank too much the night before. Everything shows on your face in your mid-thirties. He shrugs off his leather jacket. His arms are covered in tattoos. She knows all of them but one. A tiny viola on the inside of his right wrist, just the outline. She catches his arm. “New tattoo?”

  He flexes and unflexes his hand. “Yes.”

  Is it for me, Drew almost asks. Then decides she doesn’t need to. Who else would it be for? Unless he started dating another string player.

  He sits on her couch, on top of the blankets and laundry. “You haven’t been home. Are you moving?”

  Drew clears off a spot on the couch and sits. His body indents the couch in a way both familiar and strange. She can feel his warmth, warming her. She swallows. “I don’t know.”

  “Oh.” He leans away, to better see her. “You look wonderful.”

  Drew has to laugh. She’s wearing tattered workout clothes, no makeup, and her hair’s in a ponytail. “That’s some sweet sarcasm.”

  “No. Really.” He smiles at her. Sincere and regretful. He ca
tches her hand and kisses it. “I missed you.”

  She’s not going to get sucked back into this. Into him. She looks around at her disordered apartment. She’s got so much to do. “What is it that you wanted to tell me, Jonah?”

  He takes out a piece of paper from his pocket. Tri-folded. “You know that song you wrote? ‘Out of Bounds’?”

  Drew lifts one corner of her mouth. “The one that you guys said wasn’t your sound? Yeah.”

  Jonah has the good grace to blush. “We want to play it. Everybody loves it. I’d wanted you to play your own part in it.” He unfolds the paper and hands it to her.

  Drew studies it. It’s a contract. She would get the standard rate, a percentage of what the publisher makes. Only about eight cents per sale. She wouldn’t really make much unless the track sold a few million copies. It’s standard, actually. Drew folds it, hands it back. “Do you have copies?” She’ll do it. After all, she’d rather it be played than not. Eight cents per sale is better than zero. It’s a start for her.

  He nods, but doesn’t get any more papers out. “Have you been playing a lot?”

  “Here and there.” She leans back and looks at his arms. The way they connect to his shoulders.

  “Have you thought about rejoining the band?” He puts his face very close to hers. His breath is minty, as if he chewed gum on the way over.

  Her eye travels to the viola case sitting by her bed. It was dreary to travel from town to town, never getting enough sleep. The only familiar people were her bandmates, and not all of them liked her. They bickered over everything—where to eat dinner, what towns were worthwhile, the set list. Endless little arguments that whittled chips out of Drew.

  Everyone kept telling her what an honor and a privilege she had, getting to be in a band that got any gigs at all—yet Drew remembers only how empty she felt. Always bending to the band’s wishes. Never able to quite be herself.

  Her ambition was supposed to keep growing, wasn’t it? That’s what Drew was taught. Be bigger, stronger, faster. Once one goal was accomplished, another goal would move into view. Unending. Drew was tired of it.